A stranger, schooled to gentle arts, <br /> He stept before the curious throng; <br /> His path into our waiting hearts <br /> Already paved by song. <br /> <br /> Full well we knew his choristers, <br /> Whose plaintive voices haunt our rest, <br /> Those sable-vested harbingers <br /> Of melancholy guest. <br /> <br /> We smiled on him for love of these, <br /> With eyes that swift grew dim to scan <br /> Beneath the veil of courteous ease <br /> The faith-forsaken man. <br /> <br /> To his wan gaze the weary shows <br /> And fashions of our vain estate, <br /> Our shallow pain and false repose, <br /> Our barren love and hate, <br /> <br /> Are shadows in a land of graves, <br /> Where creeds, the bubbles of a dream, <br /> Flash each and fade, like melting waves <br /> Upon a moonlight stream. <br /> <br /> Yet loyal to his own despair, <br /> Erect beneath a darkened sky, <br /> He deems the austerest truth more fair <br /> Than any gracious lie; <br /> <br /> And stands, heroic, patient, sage, <br /> With hopeless hands that bind the sheaf, <br /> Claiming God's work with His wage, <br /> The bard of unbelief.<br /><br />Katharine Lee Bates<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/matthew-arnold-on-hearing-him-read-his-poems-in/
