When I am tired of earnest men, Intense and keen and sharp and clever, Pursuing fame with brush or pen Or counting metal disks forever, Then from the halls of Shadowland Beyond the trackless purple sea Old Martin's ghost comes back to stand Beside my desk and tang. He wears a brilliant-hued cravat, A suit to match his soft grey hair, A rakish stick, a knowing hat, A manner blithe and debonair. How good that he who always knew That being lovely was a duty, Should have gold halls to wander through And should himself inhabit beauty. How like his old unselfish way To leave those halls of splendid mirth And comfort those condemned to stay Upon the dull and sombre earth. Some people ask: "What cruel chance Made Martin's life so sad a story?" Martin? Why, he exhaled romance, And wore an overcoat of glory. A fleck of sunlight in the street, A horse, a book, a girl who smiled, Such visions made each moment sweet For this receptive ancient child. Because it was old Martin's lot To be, not make, a decoration, Shall we then scorn him, having not His genius of appreciation? Rich joy and love he got and gave; His heart was merry as his dress; Pile laurel wreaths upon his grave Who did not gain, but was, success! | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...INSOMNIA by EDITH MATILDA THOMAS THE IDEAL FOUND by ANNE CHARLOTTE LYNCH BOTTA BALLADE OF THE IDEAL WAITER by BERTON BRALEY BRITANNIA'S PASTORALS: BOOK 2. THE FIFTH SONG by WILLIAM BROWNE (1591-1643) BEAUTY CRUCIFIED by ANNA SHAW BUCK BLASTING ROCKS IN VERMONT by DANIEL LEAVENS CADY A BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 13 by THOMAS CAMPION TOWARDS DEMOCRACY: PART 3. A VOICE OVER THE EARTH by EDWARD CARPENTER |