Three poets stood before the king,
Longing, as poets do, to sing.
The first in clownish garb arrayed,
With jingling bauble ever played;
Over his perky face the while
Flitted a sneer or else a smile.

Well-groomed the second was, and neat,
In proper dress from head to feet;
A mirror of the fashion he,
And ruddy-cheeked, and fair to see.
The third stood near, with drooping head
Unkemmed and pale as are the dead.

“O king, hear me,” the first one cried:
“I have no thought on earth beside
To make you laugh, forget your care.
No sacred thing my song shall spare;
Of joy or grief 'tis yours to quaff;
Be wise with me, O king, and laugh.”

And thus the second urged his claim:
“Hear me, O king, for I can frame
Ballade, rondeau, and villanelle;
Sonnets by me are finished well,
And I can deftly, truly play
Upon the mocking triolet.

“More tricks I know of phrase and word
Than ever yet by man was heard;
Strange terms, expressions obsolete,
Trip through my lines on dainty feet;
And when the thought seems weak and poor,
I screen it with a phrase obscure.”

Slowly the third began to speak;
His voice at first was low and weak,
But soon his words rang clearer, higher,
Until his wondrous eyes caught fire;
And then a light from heaven shed
Sat halowise upon his head.

No leave asked he of court or king;
He sang as those who die or sing:
A strain prophetic, weird, sublime—
The voice and meaning of all time.
Rhymester and clown forgotten lie—
The poet's song shall never die.