Not As Of One Whom Multitudes Admire, I Believe They Call Him Great; They Throng To Hear Him With A Strange Desire; They, Silent, Come And Wait, And Wonder When He Opens Wide The Gate Of Some Strange, Inner Temple, Where The Fire Is Lit On Many Altars Of Many Dreams -- They Wait To Catch The Gleams -- And Then They Say, In Praiseful Words: "'Tis Beautiful And Grand." And So His Way Is Strewn With Many Flowers, Sweet And Fair; And People Say: "How Happy He Must Be To Win And Wear Praise Ev'Ry Day!" And All The While He Stands Far Out The Crowd, Strangely ~Alone~. Is It A Stole He Wears? -- Or Mayhap A Shroud -- No Matter Which, His Spirit Maketh Moan; And All The While A Lonely, Lonesome Sense Creeps Thro' His Days -- All Fame'S Incense Hath Not The Fragrance Of His Altar; And He Seemeth Rather To Kneel In Lowly Prayer Than Lift His Head Aloft Amid The Grand: If All The World Would Kneel Down At His Feet And Give Acclaim -- He Fain Would Say: "Oh! No! No! No! The Breath Of Fame Is Sweet -- But Far More Sweet Is The Breath Of Him Who Lives Within My Heart; God'S Breath, Which E'En, Despite Of Me, Will Creep Along The Words Of Merely Human Art; It Cometh From Some Far-Off Hidden Deep, Far-Off And From So Far Away -- It Filleth Night And Day." Not As Of One Who Ever, Ever Cares For Earthly Praises, Not As Of Such Think Thou Of Me, And In The Nights And Days -- I'll Meet With Thee In Prayers -- And Thou Shalt Meet With Me.