Vanity

A Poet sang so wondrous sweet That toiling thousands paused and listened long; So lofty, strong and noble were his themes, It seemed that strength supernal swayed his song.
    He, god-like, chided poor, weak, weeping man, And bade him dry his foolish, shameful tears; Taught that each soul on its proud self should lean, And from that rampart scorn all earth-born fears.
    The Poet grovelled on a fresh heaped mound, Raised o'er the clay of one he'd fondly loved; And cursed the world, and drenched the sod with tears And all the flimsy mockery of his precepts proved.