THE Priest of Beauty, the Anointed One,
Through the wide world passes the Poet on.
All that is noble by his word is crown'd,
But on his brow th' Acanthus wreath is bound.
Eternal temples rise beneath his hand,
While his own griefs are written in the sand;
He plants the blooming gardens, trails the vine—
But others wear the flowers, drink the wine;
He plunges in the depths of life to seek
Rich joys for other hearts—his own may break.
Like the poor diver beneath Indian skies,
He flings the pearl upon the shore—and dies.