Classic Poem

The world awaits: When shall there come again
The nameless heir to an imperial throne,
From thronged metropolis or mountain glen,
To prove his royal blood and claim his own—
The boundless empire of the hearts of men?
Is he among us now, uncrowned, unknown,—
Perchance his birth-right self-unrecognized—
A king beneath a peasant's garb disguised?

Doubt not; for while the fair young mother Spring
Comes lapping in her robe half-opened flowers,
And birds that seek old haunts on eager wing;
While buxom Summer dozes through bright hours,
Unwaked by insect pipe or scythe's far ring;
While auburn Autumn browns the forest bowers,
And Winter bellows o'er the wind-swept hill,
One favored son is born to Nature still.

The crown is his whose life is set apart,
Not by strange moods or cloudy wanderings,
But by the clear faith of a fervenTheart,
To pierce the clotted crust of common things.
And with the passion of an untaught art—
As some joy-raptured bird leaps up and sings—
Translate in music to the voiceless throng
The loveliness which has no name but Song.