'I am not as these are,' the poet saith In youth's pride, and the painter, among men At bay, where never pencil comes nor pen, And shut about with his own frozen breath.
To others, for whom only rhyme wins faith As poets,--only paint as painters,--then He turns in the cold silence; and again Shrinking, 'I am not as these are,' he saith.
And say that this is so, what follows it?
For were thine eyes set backwards in thine head, Such words were well; but they see on, and far.
Unto the lights of the great Past, new-lit Fair for the Future's track, look thou instead,--Say thou instead 'I am not as _these_ are.'
