Impartiality - Free Audiobook

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS

                    There came a youth upon the earth,
                      Some thousand years ago,
                    Whose  slender hands were nothing worth,
                    Whether to plow, to reap, or sow.

                    Upon an empty tortoise-shell
                      He stretched some chords, and drew
                    Music that made men's bosoms swell
                    Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

                    Then King Admetus, one who had
                      Pure taste by right divine,
                    Decreed his singing not too bad
                    To hear between the cups of wine

                    And so, well-pleased with being soothed
                      Into a sweet half-sleep,
                    Three times his kingly beard he smoothed,
                    And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

                    His words were simple words enough,
                      And yet he used them so,
                    That what in other mouths was rough
                    In his seemed musical and low.

                    Men called him but a shiftless youth,
                      In whom no good they saw;
                    And yet, unwittingly, in truth,
                    They made his careless words their law.

                    They knew not how he learned at all,
                      For idly, hour by hour,
                    He sat and watched the dead leaves fall,
                    Or mused upon a common flower.

                    It seemed the loveliness of things
                      Did teach him all their use,
                    For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs,
                    He found a healing power profuse.

                    Men granted that his speech was wise,
                      But, when a glance they caught
                    Of his slim grace and woman's eyes,
                    They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

                    Yet after he was dead and gone,
                      And e'en his memory dim,
                    Earth seemed more sweet to live upon,
                    More full of love, because of him.

                    And day by day more holy grew
                      Each spot where he had trod,
                    Till after—poets only knew
                    Their first-born brother as a god.