Classic Poem

The master waited long before he wrote his song:
Long was his hand stayed, mysteriously silent, a dread and sickness possessing his great desire:
In his byworld he wept, in his closet he asked questions, in his fire he turned to ashes the dead leaves of his song:
The master who honored man but could not talk of his love:
The master who knew nothing of himself except his sweet wish to make some mortal event immortal:
The master whose heart was the common heart and whose voice must be the voice of the crowd.

But one day, early in the morning of the day, in the morning after a night of disturbing dreams,
The master awoke: awoke not to the day but to himself:
Some concealed obstruction to his flooded feelings was broken down, unseen barriers were swept away, the many worlds opened wide in his one heart:
Voiceless things found music in their silences, dead hopes raised their wings for flight again;
The master was born.

The master was born:
Born in the lateness of years, born to the dear joy of himself,
Born away from old hungers, born exempt from ambition, born free of the husk of pride, born in the release of fraternity:
The master who waited long, the master whose words would not come:
The master whose dreams moled in the ground.

The master was born but not to words:
Somehow the words came but the words that came were not the words he expected:
And pathos came but he wept over griefs he was not prepared for:
And secrets were divulged but none of them were the secrets of his prophecy:
And he found himself close to the people, listening to them and being listened to:
And he grew careless about his phrases and careful of his love:
And he watched that no pretty word that was hideous was put where the ugly word that was beautiful belonged:
And so he was much less master than before but far more man:
And so he was watched for by the gaping crowds and held preciously in open arms:
The master who had waited long for words and awoke not to words that prevent song but to song itself.

With only few words the master sung:
With fewer words than few the master sung:
And a morrow came when not a word was spoken and yet all knew the master was singing his master song.

And then it was that all the schools of the earth were razed to the ground:
And then it was that scholars retired from the earth and debates ceased:
And then it was that a great presence filled everything and revived in health all erring life.

What was the unseeable body the master brought?
What was the unheard song the master conceived?
What was the power in him that swayed all wrong to its fall?
What was that in his heart long delayed which found its voice only in the silence?
What was it that made him from that time dear to suffering man?
What was it that through him absolved all suffering from its office?
What was it that burst through him in new light from a fresh sun?
It is the sacred something which passes between bodies and souls that love yet says nothing:
It is the sacred something half kept half revealed which needs no middlemen:
The heart of the master in the heart of the crowd:
The heart of the master going down into the world without a word:
The heart of the master disputing no more for priorities of words:
The heart of the master whose words no more were words but events and persons:
The heart of the master whose art was a chord in silence.

And it was for this that the master waited long before he wrote his song.