Poets are strange not always understood By many is their gift, Which is for evil or for mighty1 good To lower or to lift.
Upon their spirits there hath come a breath； Who reads their verse Will rise to higher life, or taste of death In blessing2 or in curse.
The Poet is great Nature's own high priest, Ordained3 from very birth To keep for hearts an everlasting4 feast To bless or curse the earth.
They cannot help but sing； they know not why Their thoughts rush into song, And float above the world, beneath the sky, For right or for the wrong.
They are like angels but some angels fell, While some did keep their place； Their poems are the gates of heav'n or hell, And God's or Satan's face
Looks thro' their ev'ry word into your face, In blessing or in blight5, And leaves upon your soul a grace or trace Of sunlight or of night.
They move along life's uttermost extremes, Unlike all other men； And in their spirit's depths sleep strangest dreams, Like shadows in a glen.
They all are dreamers； in the day and night Ever across their souls The wondrous6 mystery of the dark or bright In mystic rhythm rolls.
They live within themselves they may not tell What lieth deepest there； Within their breast a heaven or a hell, Joy or tormenting7 care.
They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways, No matter what they seem； The stars and sunlight of their nights and days Move over them in dream.
They breathe it forth8 their very spirit's breath To bless the world or blight； To bring to men a higher life or death； To give them light or night.
The words of some command the world's acclaim9, And never pass away, While others' words receive no palm from fame, And live but for a day.
But, live or die, their words leave their impress Fore'er or for an hour, And mark men's souls some more and some the less With good's or evil's power.
