Classic Poem

My plain song is not heard:
It lifts its simple cadence in love and benediction,
It travels the usual ways in the usual dress of men —
Like the river it keeps to its natural course and is not remarked,
And like the clouds it is driven here and there obediently to its law —
But the masters pass it by hearing nothing or resenting 'what they hear,
And the echoers of the masters pass it by because the masters ignore or reject the unaccustomed note,
And so though it does not stop singing it sings mainly to itself
And is joyful within itself and sufficient and looks for no return.

And yet my song is heard because I hear it with my own ears,
And it is answered because I respond to it in my days and nights of love,
And it flies far because it is pledged to keep up with my ideals,
And it sings true because it adds my laughter to my tears in one total of joy,
And that is enough because honesty is always enough,
And that is enough because not being known is always enough,
And so though I sing forever and I alone hear my song
I am audience enough and I cheer my journey with sweet acclaim.

Did I say no one hears my song?
I guess I should not say that: my song too has its answerers,
But my answerers are not priests who make the creeds of song,
Nor are they the sleek or the comfortable or the wary:
They are the people who are as plain as my song,
They are the average men and women who do not rate themselves very high:
They hear me, a few of them, and take me to heart —
They catch up my words and pass them around and make friends of them.
The man who is picking coal in a mine — he listens, he hears some echo underground, he cant account for it:
The woman tending a loom is startled by my familiar salute: she stops her loom to make sure of my message:
The engineer in his place in the train dashing on feels himself mysteriously summoned:
The mother worried by her small children halts in the middle of a sentence to catch me as I pass:
I sound up and down the streets my simple cry of aspiration:
Heads are pushed out of windows to see who I am and why I call:
The little boys playing marbles recognize and acknowledge me and go on with their game whistling and happy:
So it seems that after all there are some reasons for my song,
And though no one could say why some do faintly hear and gladly listen:
The unlettered hear and listen and slaves in distress hear and listen,
The wronged hear and derelicts who hope for better times hear and listen,
And I who am not accepted by teachers who give out prizes and diplomas,
And I who am not invited to shed luster on state occasions with my song,
I am hailed as the voice of populations which but for me would go unnamed,
I am hailed as the loyal witness of improved codes and juster laws,
I am hailed as the courier and promise of social regeneration:
I whom nobody hears, I whom a few gladly hear,
Wandering between houses and across fields and hills singing my songs the best I can,
Not worried so long as I make use of my own voice and follow my own feet,
Drilled not by schools and traditions but in the stern clash of revolt,
I, not remembered, not forgotten, treated as an alien, yet haunting the world with my rhythms,
Lavish on the crowd the richest treasure of time.

The President sits high in the state and does not hear me,
The general tearing about on horseback issuing noisy orders to his troops does not hear me,
The professor teaching dead arts to his live classes does not hear me,
The editor taking the lead in following public opinion does not hear me,
The merchant and the lawyer who mix best with worst in barter and logic do not hear me,
And so for all the great and all the prosperous I would go unheard,
But the tramp dusty and tired in the road — he hears me,
But the workman wronged and browbeaten at his toil — he hears me,
But the poorly clothed people and people underfed — they hear me,
But the dreaming boy and girl badly starting out in life — they hear me,
But I who listen and am so much in love with my own voice — I hear myself,
And all that seems to me to be quite enough,
No matter for the applause of office and grandeur seems to me to be quite enough,
The sufferers and the humble hearing me quite enough,
And I hearing myself quite enough,
Though as I match my fate with the fate of the chosen
My plain song is not heard.