We men, Simon Peter, we men also give you the crown O'er Paul and o'er John. We write you in capitals, make you the chief Word on the leaf. We know you as one of our flesh, and 'tis well You are warder of hell, And heaven's gatekeeper forever to bind and to loose-- Keep the keys if you choose. Not rock of you, fire of you make you sublime In the annals of time. You were called by Him, Peter, a rock, but we give you the name Of Peter the Flame. For you struck a spark, as the spark from the shock Of steel upon rock. The rock has his use but the flame gives the light In the way in the night:-- Oh Peter, the dreamer, impetuous, human, divine, Gnarled branch of the vine! ALL LIFE IN A LIFE His father had a large family Of girls and boys and he was born and bred In a barn or kind of cattle shed. But he was a hardy youngster and grew to be A boy with eyes that sparkled like a rod Of white hot iron in the blacksmith shop. His face was ruddy like a rising moon, And his hair was black as sheep's wool that is black. And he had rugged arms and legs and a strong back. And he had a voice half flute and half bassoon. And from his toes up to his head's top He was a man, simple but intricate. And most men differ who try to delineate His life and fate. He never seemed ashamed Of poverty or of his origin. He was a wayward child, Nevertheless though wise and mild, And thoughtful but when angered then he flamed As fire does in a forge. When he was ten years old he ran away To be alone and watch the sea, and the stars At midnight from a mountain gorge. When he returned his parents scolded him And threatened him with bolts and bars. Then they grew soft for his return and gay And with their love would have enfolded him. But even at ten years old he had a way Of gazing at you with a look austere Which gave his kinfolk fear. He had no childlike love for father or mother, Sister or brother, They were the same to him as any other. He was a little cold, a little queer. His father was a laborer and now They made the boy work for his daily bread. They say he read A book or two during these years of work. But if there was a secret prone to lurk Between the pages under the light of his brow It came forth. And if he had a woman In love or out of love, or a companion or a chum, History is dumb. So far as we know he dreamed and worked with hands And learned to know his genius' commands Or what is called one's dæmon.