How The Unknown Poets Die

IN the light of a summer sky,
In the warmth of a noon-day sun,
With the roses in fullest bloom,
With the gold of the hours to run;
With the earth breathing deep for joy
Of the riches that deck her breast,
With her promises new and sweet,
They pass unknown to their rest.
In the busy and eager town,
In the desolate crowded street,
In a passionate great despair
For the faces they do not meet;
With the world passing heedless by
In its pleasure and pride and strife,
While its magical pulses beat
They silently slip from life.
For the need of a kindly voice
To bid theirs arise clear and strong,
To tell them the world has need,
Ever need of a poet's song;
For the sound of a healing word
In their hurts on the stony way,
For the want of their daily bread
They pass, as the chosen may.
With tears in their tired hearts,
Bitter tears which they dare not weep
In the sorrow that gave them birth,
In the watches they had to keep;
In a love which they spent for nought,
In a longing they might not quell,
In a life that they failed to live,--
And passing, for them, is well.
In the flood of a triumph song,
From the burden of words set free,
In the beautiful last release
Of a striving life melody;--
For the sake of a radiant height
They climbed ere the years were spent,
--For the joy of a moment there,
They die, and are well content.