James Russell Lowell

The Poet

  He who hath felt Life's mystery
    Press on him like thick night,
  Whose soul hath known no history
    But struggling after light;--
  He who hath seen dim shapes arise
    In the soundless depths of soul,
  Which gaze on him with meaning eyes
    Full of the mighty whole,
  Yet will no word of healing speak,
    Although he pray night-long,
  "O, help me, save me! I am weak,
    And ye are wondrous strong!"--
  Who, in the midnight dark and deep,
    Hath felt a voice of might
  Come echoing through the halls of sleep
    From the lone heart of Night,
  And, starting from his restless bed,
    Hath watched and wept to know
  What meant that oracle of dread
    That stirred his being so;
  He who hath felt how strong and great
    This Godlike soul of man,
  And looked full in the eyes of Fate,
    Since Life and Thought began;
  The armor of whose moveless trust
    Knoweth no spot of weakness,
  Who hath trod fear into the dust
    Beneath the feet of meekness;--
  He who hath calmly borne his cross,
    Knowing himself the king
  Of time, nor counted it a loss
    To learn by suffering;--
  And who hath worshipped woman still
    With a pure soul and lowly,
  Nor ever hath in deed or will
    Profaned her temple holy--
  He is the Poet, him unto
    The gift of song is given,
  Whose life is lofty, strong, and true,
  He is the Poet, from his lips
    To live forevermore,
  Majestical as full-sailed ships,
    The words of Wisdom pour.