Classic Poem

The people bowed before his throne;
No eye dared look upon his face;
His splendid cohorts round him shone,
And satraps of a royal race.

His heart beat high; he bade them raise
A mighty, monumental stone,
Whereby his name and power and praise
To future ages should be known.

That self-same hour a poet lay
Musing beside a forest stream;
Before his door at close of day
He told the shepherd folk his dream.

The stone is dust: the monarch's name
By men has been forgotten long;
But the unconscious poet's fame
Is fresh as his immortal song.