Alas! we know not what

Withholds us from the goal

For ever; an inner rot

Consumes the seeing soul.

Only the truth will serve;

But he who follows it,

And finds, has not the nerve

To rule the world with it.

The cunning keep the crown;

And fate decrees that he

Who lives with truth alone

Shall win no victory.

II

Not to be granted great,

Not to be crowned in youth,

His soul is passionate

With anger for the truth.

He feels the spirit-drouth,

He seeks the mad emprise

To mock the mocking mouth

And smite the lips of lies.

Not his the happy guile

To veil the flinching eye,

Here where we sit and smile

To hear each other lie.

But ours to live, forsooth;

We keep a decent face

And seize the skirts of truth

And skip into a place;

With bearded wisdom thence

Our noble plan unfold

For gathering good—pretence

Indeed for gathering gold.

But he—he cannot rise;

He slowly falls apart;

For all these human lies

Are needles in his heart.

He has the truth, he thinks;

He shivers in his rags;

The laughing liar chinks

His bursting money-bags

Of lie-begotten pelf,

And climbs the ladder of lies

To fortune—for himself,

And not for wisdom, wise.

We crown the charlatan;

But show to him who shapes

A priceless work for man

The gratitude of apes.

So one with toil hath writ

The work which is his life.

Being poor, he has no wit;

His reader is his wife;

They live in direst need;

No fortunate patron shows

The work for men to read;

He dies, and no one knows.

A jealous rival burns

The work he will not save;

The buried poet turns

And mutters in his grave.

III

Old Ape, old Earth, we smile,

Thou ancient Land of Lies,

At all thy simple guile,

Thy wisdom that’s not wise.

Scum of the populace,

The chatterer, cheat, and fool,

Thou puttest in high place

To scourge thee and to rule;

But him who thee hath given

The good food of the land

Or water out of heaven

Thou bitest in the hand.