To the end of the trail / Richard Hovey [electronic text]

[str. (strophe) γ.

Behold, of him unto whom much is given,Much is required. It is a fearful thingTo be a poet. How shall he be shriven,If greed or fear restrain his uttering?Oh, ill for him, whoever he may be,Who looks upon the glory of the nightAnd is not glad of heart!Behold, he hath eyes and he doth not see!How shall his soul see the very light?Shall he ever emerge from the mirk of the mart?Ay, but if he whom the high gods have ordained Their priest, speak not the truth that his eye shall see,There shall be no spirit in hell so scourged as he —No soul so self-disdained.Woe to the chosen one,Lured from his lonely way,Bullied or bribed to abandon the shrine!There is one only way —None other — none.Lady, whose bay-flowersI wear for a fear and a sign,If the world should beguile meWith music and masking and glitter of gay flowers,Then I could not reply, should'st thou revile me,

Wordless and more in high contempt than ire.Ay, even if, feeling at sight of the sweet goalMine own unworthiness,I should delay to seize the seven-tongued lyre,Lest I should do its sacred strings some wrong,Thou might'st well leave me with small doleAnd he who is the Virgil to my song,Scorning my timorous distress,Might well reproach the vileness of my soul.