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The Poet VIII

by
 He is a link between this and the coming world.
He is A pure spring from which all thirsty souls may drink.
He is a tree watered by the River of Beauty, bearing Fruit which the hungry heart craves; He is a nightingale, soothing the depressed Spirit with his beautiful melodies; He is a white cloud appearing over the horizon, Ascending and growing until it fills the face of the sky.
Then it falls on the flows in the field of Life, Opening their petals to admit the light.
He is an angel, send by the goddess to Preach the Deity's gospel; He is a brilliant lamp, unconquered by darkness And inextinguishable by the wind.
It is filled with Oil by Istar of Love, and lighted by Apollon of Music.
He is a solitary figure, robed in simplicity and Kindness; He sits upon the lap of Nature to draw his Inspiration, and stays up in the silence of the night, Awaiting the descending of the spirit.
He is a sower who sows the seeds of his heart in the Prairies of affection, and humanity reaps the Harvest for her nourishment.
This is the poet -- whom the people ignore in this life, And who is recognized only when he bids the earthly World farewell and returns to his arbor in heaven.
This is the poet -- who asks naught of Humanity but a smile.
This is the poet -- whose spirit ascends and Fills the firmament with beautiful sayings; Yet the people deny themselves his radiance.
Until when shall the people remain asleep? Until when shall they continue to glorify those Who attain greatness by moments of advantage? How long shall they ignore those who enable Them to see the beauty of their spirit, Symbol of peace and love? Until when shall human beings honor the dead And forget the living, who spend their lives Encircled in misery, and who consume themselves Like burning candles to illuminate the way For the ignorant and lead them into the path of light? Poet, you are the life of this life, and you have Triumphed over the ages of despite their severity.
Poet, you will one day rule the hearts, and Therefore, your kingdom has no ending.
Poet, examine your crown of thorns; you will Find concealed in it a budding wreath of laurel.

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