The Poet's Prophecy

He walked through the midst of the crowd

A mark for each scornful eye,But lifted his gaze to a golden cloudAt anchorage in the sky,And smiled, as he murmured, half-aloud:'I shall live when all these die.

'That fair dame's beauty shall fade—Food for worms to batten upon;Yon warrior's laurels within the shadeGrow withered, sere, and brown;The price of that prelate's pride be paidWith an effigy in stone.'

The golden cloud sailed into the West,Where the sun in blood sank down;While the poet passed to his humble nestBy the river-ways of town.'Tis years since then, and, called from their rest,The crowd would find that the poet knew best—He lives in his renown.