The Prophet

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The Prophet

Speak, Prophet of the Lord! We may not start

To find thee with us in thine ancient dress,

Haggard and pale from some bleak wilderness,

Empty of all save God and thy loud heart,

Nor with like rugged message quick to dart

Into the hideous fiction mean and base;

But yet, O prophet man, we need not less

But more of earnest, though it is thy part

To deal in other words, if thou wouldst smite

The living Mammon, seated, not as then

In bestial quiescence grimly dight,

But robed as priest, and honoured of good men

Yet thrice as much an idol-god as when

He stared at his own feet from morn to night.