I KNOW not if a keener smart
Can come to finer souls than his
Who hears men praise him, mind or heart,
For something higher than he is.
Who fain would say, 'Behold me, friends,
That which I am, not what you deem,
A thing of low and narrow ends,
Sordid, not golden as I seem.
See here the hidden blot of shame,
The weak thought that you take for strong,
The brain too dull to merit fame,
The faint and imitative song.'
But dares not, lest discovery foul
Not his name only, but degrade
Heights closed but to the soaring soul,
Names which scorn trembles to invade;
And doth his inner self conceal
From all men in his own despite,
Hiding what he would fain reveal,
And a most innocent hypocrite.
