Fame

1     Once, in a dream, I saw a man,     With haggard face and tangled hair,     And eyes that nursed as wild a care     As gaunt Starvation ever can;     And in his hand he held a wand     Whose magic touch gave life and thought     Unto a form his fancy wrought     And robed with coloring so grand,     It seemed the reflex of some child     Of Heaven, fair and undefiled -     A face of purity and love -     To woo him into worlds above:     And as I gazed with dazzled eyes,     A gleaming smile lit up his lips     As his bright soul from its eclipse     Went flashing into Paradise.     Then tardy Fame came through the door     And found a picture - nothing more.      2     And once I saw a man alone,     In abject poverty, with hand     Uplifted o'er a block of stone     That took a shape at his command     And smiled upon him, fair and good -     A perfect work of womanhood,     Save that the eyes might never weep,     Nor weary hands be crossed in sleep,     Nor hair that fell from crown to wrist,     Be brushed away, caressed and kissed.     And as in awe I gazed on her,     I saw the sculptor's chisel fall -     I saw him sink, without a moan,     Sink life less at the feet of stone,     And lie there like a worshipper.     Fame crossed the threshold of the hall,     And found a statue - that was all.      3     And once I saw a man who drew     A gloom about him like cloak,     And wandered aimlessly. The few     Who spoke of him at all, but spoke     Disparagingly of a mind     The Fates had faultily designed:     Too indolent for modern times -     Too fanciful, and full of whims -     For talking to himself in rhymes,     And scrawling never-heard-of hymns,     The idle life to which he clung     Was worthless as the songs he sung!     I saw him, in my vision, filled     With rapture o'er a spray of bloom     The wind threw in his lonely room;     And of the sweet perfume it spilled     He drank to drunkenness, and flung     His long hair back, and laughed and sung     And clapped his hands as children do     At fairy tales they listen to,     While from his flying quill there dripped     Such music on his manuscript     That he who listens to the words     May close his eyes and dream the birds     Are twittering on every hand     A language he can understand.     He journeyed on through life unknown,     Without one friend to call his own;     He tired. No kindly hand to press     The cooling touch of tenderness     Upon his burning brow, nor lift     To his parched lips God's freest gift -     No sympathetic sob or sigh     Of trembling lips - no sorrowing eye     Looked out through tears to see him die.     And Fame her greenest laurels brought     To crown a head that heeded not.     And this is Fame! A thing indeed,     That only comes when least the need:     The wisest minds of every age     The book of life from page to page     Have searched in vain; each lesson conned     Will promise it the page beyond -     Until the last, when dusk of night     Falls over it, and reason's light     Is smothered by that unknown friend     Who signs his nom de plume, The End.