He sat upon a pinnacle alone,
Musing on lofty thoughts that search and climb,
And pierce the inner secresy of Time.
Above his head the keen stars burned and shone;
Beneath, the dark and shuddering pines made moan.
He caught an echo of celestial rhyme,
Ineffable, unspeakable, sublime,
And there supreme, serene upon his throne,
Rapt visions circled him, dim prophecies,
Vague ultimate glories, while the blue mists curled
Over a meaner, sadder, happier world;
The blazing scroll of awful mysteries
Unrolled before his kindling eyes. He trod
Apart the mountain peak and sang to God.
The other paced incessant to and fro
The crowded lanes of cities, where the light
Of obscure firesides streamed into the night;
Babble of childish laughter, humble woe,
The common troubles that the common know,
The din of homely labor and the sight
Of homely pleasures, struggles wrong or right
Unheard, unheeded, narrow lives and low,
He stooped and wove them garlands for his art;
Transfigured by the magic of his song
The simple joys and sorrows of the throng;
Laid his great heart upon the people's heart;
Garnered a harvest of the scattered sheaves.
And then
Careless of deeper things he sang to men.