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I saw a man in my path, and he
Stood still as we came, and he looked at me.
Oh, sorrow's home was that face divine;
Oh, the infinite love as his eyes met mine!
An oaken cross on his shoulders lay—
I paused a moment, then turned away.
For my other self thus had cried to me:
‘'Tis but a phantom you chance to see.
Look! Even now it has ceased to stay
’Neath the hurrying feet on the great highway.‘

So I was first in the weary race,
As, aged and worn, we toiled apace.
Each man bowed low at my feet and came
To crown me king on the Hill of Fame,
And king of them all I reigned alone.
Yet I shuddered oft on my golden throne.
The ground had grown not earth nor stones,
For the hill was raised of dead men's bones.
I fear my subject's untiring praise,
For his hand the while with his dagger plays.
My other self whispers: ‘O joy! for see,
Men and women all worship thee.
Thy flattered ear to their praise incline;
Endless glory and wealth are thine;
Such fame, such worship, no man hath known.’

Ah me! I sigh on my golden throne.