Bright, for he knows what no man else On earth as yet may know: There’s a golden word that he never tells, And a gift that he will not show. He dreams of honor and wealth and fame, He smiles, and well he may; For to Vickery once a sick man came Who did not go away. The day before the day to be, “Vickery,” said the guest, “You know as you live what’s left of me-- And you shall know the rest. “You know as you live that I have come To what we call the end. No doubt you have found me troublesome, But you’ve also found a friend; “For we shall give and you shall take The gold that is in view; The mountain there and I shall make A golden man of you. “And you shall leave a friend behind Who neither frets nor feels; And you shall move among your kind With hundreds at your heels. “Now this that I have written here Tells all that need be told; So, Vickery, take the way that’s clear, And be a man of gold.” Vickery turned his eyes again To the far mountain-side, And wept a tear for worthy men Defeated and defied. Since then a crafty score of years Have come, and they have gone; But Vickery counts no lost arrears: He lingers and lives on. Blue in the west the mountain stands, Familiar as a face. Blue, but Vickery knows what sands Are golden at its base. He dreams and lives upon the day When he shall walk with kings. Vickery smiles--and well he may: The life-caged linnet sings. Vickery thinks the time will come To go for what is his; But hovering, unseen hands at home Will hold him where he is. There’s a golden word that he never tells And a gift that he will not show. All to be given to some one else-- And Vickery shall not know. BON VOYAGE Child of a line accurst And old as Troy, Bringer of best and worst In wild alloy-- Light, like a linnet first, He sang for joy. Thrall to the gilded ease Of every day, Mocker of all degrees And always gay, Child of the Cyclades And of Broadway-- Laughing and half divine The boy began, Drunk with a woodland wine Thessalian: But there was rue to twine The pipes of Pan. Therefore he skipped and flew The more along, Vivid and always new And always wrong, Knowing his only clew A siren song. Careless of each and all He gave and spent: Feast or a funeral He laughed and went, Laughing to be so small In the event. Told of his own deceit By many a tongue, Flayed for his long defeat By being young, Lured by the fateful sweet Of songs unsung--