Page:The Man with the Hoe, Markham, 1900.djvu/43



The Poet

His home is in the heights: to him

Men wage a battle weird and dim,

Life is a mission stern as fate,

And Song a dread apostolate.

The toils of prophecy are his,

To hail the coming centuries—

To ease the steps and lift the load

Of souls that falter on the road.

The perilous music that he hears

Falls from the vortice of the spheres.

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