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THE POET KING.
A quiet man, of gentle face,
Yet noble mien and courtly grace,
To need and sorrow wed; For lack of gold his worth untold, And jealous Fame speaks not his name,
But waits till he is dead.
He sat beside a limpid stream And saw its lucent waters gleam
In jewels rich and rare ; And in the hue of Heaven's blue An angel face of gentle grace
Was sweetly mirrored there.
He saw the flowers bloom and blush From cordial morn till evening's hush,
And listened to the lay Of cooing dove, so full of love, And drank the breeze that kissed the trees,
In happy, hoyden play.
He lived in contemplation high, Of all the glories of the sky,
And sweetest lessons took From earth and air; the bright and fair Of every place and age and race;
And read from Nature's book. •