Classic Poem

Yea, all forsook him. Some had kissed his lips;
They fled:
They could not bear joy's gaunt eclipse
And red.

They followed him through many a summer day
And smiled:
They could not face the great waves grey
And wild.

They twisted roses in his sun-crowned hair,
But when
The thorns drew blood from fingers fair,—
What then?

They shuddered, and they flung the tender flowers
Down hard.
They had deemed him but for summer hours
A bard.

Their soft love-oath included not the night
Storm-blown.
Their hearts were pale, their hands were white:
They have flown!

The stars watch on, the garden flowers watch on,
Most brave!
But some star-spirits should have shone
To save!

The skies watch with him, and the foam of seas
Gives light:
The waves are gentle near his knees
And bright.

But ah! the spirits who promised many things
And fair:
Who gave the poet flowers and rings
And hair.

Where are they? Ask the shallow crowd that fills
Hot rooms,
Led hither and there as fashion wills
And dooms.

Where are they? Ask the floating clouds that sail
The sky.
Ask the wind's ceaseless weary wail
And high!

Where are their kisses? Ask the roses dead
To tell!
Ask the winged fairy feet that fled
So well!

And where is he? Beneath the night he stands
Uncrowned:
The blossoms woven by loving hands
Unwound.

Alone, yet not alone: there is a Power
Supreme
Who crowneth not with kiss or flower
Or dream,—

A Power who lifteth to his great embrace
The man
Alone, forlorn, with tired-out face