O'STRONG and pure of soul! — O earnest-hearted!
Like stranger-pilgrims at some way-side shrine
Have we two met, and mingled faith, and parted, —
Thy pathway leading far away from mine.

The soul of ancient song is round thee swelling,
To triumph-marches leading on the hours;
Thy life hath templed shades, where gods are dwelling,
Where founts Castalian play among the flowers.

But faintly may the voices of the ages
Come to my yearning but imperfect sense, —
The strength of heroes and the lore of sages,
The fire of song, the storm of eloquence.

Thy thoughts, their grand vibrations far out-flinging,
Like church-tower bells ring out the morning chime,
While flow my numbers like the gleeful singing
Of peasant maidens at the vintage-time.

Grandeur and power are shrined within thy spirit;
It moves in deeps and joys in storm and night, —
While mine, of simpler mould, may but inherit
The love of all things beautiful and bright.

Truth's earnest seeker thou, — I fancy's rover:
Thy life is like a river deep and wide;
I but the light-winged wild-bird passing over,
One moment mirrored in the rushing tide.

Thus are we parted, — thou still onward hasting,
Pouring the great flood of that life along;
While I on sunny slopes am careless wasting
The little summer of my time of song.