A poem by Madison Julius Cawein

He held himself splendidly forward
Both early and late;
The aim of his purpose was starward,
To master his fate:
So he wrought and he toiled and he waited,
Till he rose o'er the hordes that he hated,
And stood on the heights, as was fated,
Made one of the great.

Then lo! on the top of the mountain,
With walls that were wide,
A city! from which, as a fountain,
Rose voices that cried:
"He comes! Let us forth now to meet him!
Both mummer and priest let us greet him!
In the city he built let us seat him
On the throne of his pride!"

Then out of the city he builded,
Of shadows it seems,
From gates that his fancy had gilded
With thought's brightest gleams,
Strange mimes and chimeras came trooping,
With moping and mowing and stooping
And he saw, with a heart that was drooping,
That these were his dreams.

He entered; and, lo! as he entered
They murmured his name;
And led him where, burningly centred,
An altar of flame
Made lurid a temple, erected
Of self, where a form he detected
The love that his life had rejected
And this was his fame.

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