Page:In Bohemia (1886).djvu/65



God makes a poet: touches soul and sight,
 * And lips and heart, and sends him forth to sing;

His fellows hearing, own the true birthright,
 * And crown him daily with the love they bring.

The king a lord makes, by a parchment leaf;
 * Though heart be withered, and though sight be dim

With dullard brain and soul of disbelief—
 * Ay, even so; he makes a lord of him.

What, then, of one divinely kissed and sent
 * To fill the people with ideal words.

Who with his poet's crown is discontent.
 * And begs a parchment title with the lords?