WOULDST thou walk in the garden of fame,
Wouldst thou taste of the fruits that grow
In alleys where grapes hang low,
In fields that are never the same?

By the feet of the awful sea
Alone canst thou reach those flowers,
And sit in the shaded bowers,
Calm home of the bird and the bee.

No pathway, no compass can lead,
Alone must thou find the shore,
Alone through the fret and the roar,
Where the mailëd waters tread.

But he who would cling to a spar,
Or hold by a knotted rope,
And laugh in his secret hope,
Nor question his way of a star, --

May be saved by a master-hand,
And fast to the shore may hold;
He may see the apples of gold,
He may wander indeed on that strand,

But when the days are fulfilled,
And the master's feet are led
Where only the gods may tread,
And whither the gods have willed, --

Then he who clung to the keel,
Nor worshiped in labor and love,
Nor yearned for the apples, nor strove
With a yearning the lover must feel, --

Sees the waves of oblivion rise
And gather to drag him down;
While the face of the east wears a frown,
And are vanished the god-like eyes.