BETTER to Thee the heart of heathen fire Than the sour wood that will not burn at all: More beautiful the feet that stray and tire Than those that shun both fast and festival. Shepherd that lov'st the lost, The cold and laggard soul outwears Thee most. Look in the wild eyes of this Pagan,—Love. His feet are winged: they loathe the mortal dust. Not of Thy making, yet created of Beauty and music, splendour, pain, and trust, Vivid is he and strange, And with immortals only will he range. Christen him to Thy Knighthood if Thou wilt: Do on him the Archangel's mail and sword, For on this earth they call his strangeness guilt.— The starry essence brooks no flameless lord: He kneels before Thy throne, Thy vassal. Set his hands between Thine own. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...MERCILES BEAUTE; A TRIPLE ROUNDEL: 3. ESCAPE by GEOFFREY CHAUCER A PRAYER IN SPRING by ROBERT FROST SPORTSMEN IN PARADISE by T. P. CAMERON WILSON PAMPINEA by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE WORLD'S WAY by THOMAS BAILEY ALDRICH THE HEART'S COLLOQUY by WILLIAM ROSE BENET THE TIDES by WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT |