TRUE Poets conquer Glory—do not woo
It; do not beg their way to Fame;
Nor at her skirts in private bend and sue,
Nor sow the public broadcast with their name:
They are the great High Priests of Heaven who
Hold sacred as they feed their Altar-flame
Within the Temple: No man hears their cry
For recognition to the passers-by!

They toil on like old Noah with his Boat;
'EL' hath forespoken it, and it shall be
Ready, although the need may seem remote:
No sign that it will ever get to sea!
They fight the Deluge—keep the soul afloat—
And still work on, and leave the issue free
With Him whose flood shall fall, or high-tide climb,
To launch the Vessel in His own good time.

Alone, in silence, secretly, they grow
Invisibly, where no voice is raised to bless:
Creating in the dark like Hills below
The ocean, shaped by Nature's strong caress:
Wave after wave sweeps over them; they know
How many failures go to make success.
Their victory's in their work, not in the word
That waits to praise, as servant waits his Lord.

At last they mount from out the Lethean flood
Beyond the cloud that covers and conceals
The present time, to join the Brotherhood
Of minds that rise up lofty as the hills:
Heaven crowns them in majestic solitude;
The world, that saw not once, in wonder kneels!
The less they wooed it all the more it heeds,
And still they mount the more their Age recedes.