Poems, Chiefly Lyrical/The Poet
For other versions of this work, see The Poet (Tennyson).
THE POET.
The poet in a golden clime was born,With golden stars above;Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn,The love of love.
He saw through life and death, through good and ill,He saw through his own soul.The marvel of the everlasting will,An open scroll,
Before him lay: with echoing feet he threadedThe secret'st walks of fame.The viewless arrows of his thoughts were headedAnd winged with flame,
Like Indian reeds blown from his silver tongue,And of so fierce a flight,From Calpe unto Caucasus they sung,Filling with light
And vagrant melodies the winds which boreThem earthward till they lit;Then like the arrowseeds of the fieldflower,The fruitful wit
Cleaving took root, and springing forth anewWhere'er they fell, beholdLike to the mother plant in semblance, grewA flower all gold,
And bravely furnished all abroad to flingThe wingéd shafts of truth,To throng with stately blooms the breathing springOf Hope and Youth.
So many minds did gird their orbs with beams,Though one did fling the fire,Heaven flowed upon the soul in many dreamsOf high desire.
Thus truth was multiplied on truth, the worldLike a great garden showed,And through the wreaths of floating dark upcurled,Rare sunrise flowed.
And Freedom reared in that august sunriseHer beautiful bold brow,When rites and forms before his burning eyesMelted like snow.
There was no blood upon her maiden robesSunned by those orient skies,But round about the circles of the globesOf her keen eyes
And in the bordure of her robe was writWisdom, a name to shakeHoar anarchies, as with a thunderfit.And when she spake,
Her words did gather thunder as they ran,And as the lightning to the thunderWhich follows it, riving the spirit of man,Making earth wonder,
So was their meaning to her words. No swordOf wrath her right arm hurled,But one poor poet's scroll, and with his wordShe shook the world.