I fashioned it, that idol of my own,
Of metal strange and bright;
I made my toy a god--I raised a throne
To honour my delight.
This haunted byway of the grove was lit
With lamps my hand had trimmed,
Before the altar in the midst of it
I kept their flame undimmed.
My steps turned ever to the hidden shrine;
Aware or unaware,
My soul dwelt only in that spot divine,
And now a wreck lies there.
Give me to-night to weep--when dawn is spread
Beyond the heavy trees,
And in the east the day is heralded
By cloud-wrought companies,
I shall have gathered up my heart's desire,
Broken, destroyed, adored,
And from its splinters, in a deathless fire,
I shall have forged a sword.
"THE HAPPY WARRIOR"
I have brought no store from the field now the day is ended,
The harvest moon is up and I bear no sheaves;
When the toilers carry the fruits hanging gold and splendid,
I have but leaves.
When the saints pass by in the pride of their stainless raiment,
Their brave hearts high with the joy of the gifts they bring,
I have saved no whit from the sum of my daily payment
For offering.
Not there is my place where the workman his toil delivers,
I scarce can see the ground where the hero stands,
I must wait as the one poor fool in that host of givers,
With empty hands.
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