Not as of one whom multitudes admire, I believe they call him great; They throng to hear him with a strange desire; They, silent, come and wait, And wonder when he opens wide the gate Of some strange, inner temple, where the fire Is lit on many altars of many dreams -- They wait to catch the gleams -- And then they say, In praiseful words: "'Tis beautiful and grand." And so his way Is strewn with many flowers, sweet and fair; And people say: "How happy he must be to win and wear Praise ev'ry day!" And all the while he stands far out the crowd, Strangely alone. Is it a Stole he wears? -- or mayhap a shroud -- No matter which, his spirit maketh moan; And all the while a lonely, lonesome sense Creeps thro' his days -- all fame's incense Hath not the fragrance of his altar; and He seemeth rather to kneel in lowly prayer Than lift his head aloft amid the Grand: If all the world would kneel down at his feet And give acclaim -- He fain would say: "Oh! No! No! No! The breath of fame is sweet -- but far more sweet Is the breath of Him who lives within my heart; God's breath, which e'en, despite of me, will creep Along the words of merely human art; It cometh from some far-off hidden Deep, Far-off and from so far away -- It filleth night and day." Not as of one who ever, ever cares For earthly praises, not as of such think thou of me, And in the nights and days -- I'll meet with thee In Prayers -- and thou shalt meet with me. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE PAST by RALPH WALDO EMERSON ALNWICK CASTLE by FITZ-GREENE HALLECK GREEK SONG: 1. THE STORM OF DELPHI by FELICIA DOROTHEA HEMANS A LITTLE CHILD'S HYMN; FOR NIGHT AND MORNING by FRANCIS TURNER PALGRAVE THE LAND OF COUNTERPANE by ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON LAURENCE BLOOMFIELD IN IRELAND: 7. MIDSUMMER by WILLIAM ALLINGHAM |