Pictures in Rhyme/The Poet's Prophecy
THE POET'S PROPHECY
He walked through the midst of the crowd
A mark for each scornful eye,
But lifted his gaze to a golden cloud
At anchorage in the sky,
And smiled, as he murmured, half-aloud:
'I shall live when all these die.
'That fair dame's beauty shall fade—
Food for worms to batten upon;
Yon warrior's laurels within the shade
Grow withered, sere, and brown;
The price of that prelate's pride be paid
With an effigy in stone.'
The golden cloud sailed into the West,
Where the sun in blood sank down;
While the poet passed to his humble nest
By the river-ways of town.
'Tis years since then, and, called from their rest,
The crowd would find that the poet knew best—