A poet took in hand his mighty pen To move the hearts of lyric-loving men. He wrote of prayer, not knowing how to pray; He wrote of Heaven, not having found the way; He wrote of fame, not having reached the goal Where fame’s great treasure thrills the seeking soul; He wrote of Art, and then of Nature sweet, While Nature’s flowers were crushed beneath his feet; He wrote of life, and human love below, The power of which he did not, could not know. At last, grown weary of his every theme, A thought aroused him from his restless dream; He seized his pen,—the inspiration grew To tell of things he really felt and knew: He wrote of “mother” and his “childhood days;” Then high and low began to sing his praise.