Failure of friend, and hope, and heart, and faith—
This last the deadliest, and holding all.
Help was there none through weeping, for the years
Had stolen all his treasury of tears.
Then on a page where his eyes chanced to fall
There sprang such words of courage that they seemed
Cries on a battlefield, or as one dreamed
Of trumpets sounding charges. On he read
With fixèd gaze, and sad, down-drooping head,
And curious, half-remembering, musing mind.
The ringing of that voice had something stirred
In his deep heart, like music long since heard.
"Brave words," he sighed; and looked where they were signed;
There, reading his own name, tears made him blind.
LOST
An old, blind poet, sitting sad and lone,
Thinking his scribe was near, chimed slowly forth
Into the empty and unheeding air
A song, of all his songs the loveliest.
That night he died, and the sweet song was lost.
A million roses and uncounted worlds
Unknown, save to their Maker, strew the flood
Of heedless and immeasurable time.
"WHAT MAN HATH DONE"
Thus did he speak, thus was he comforted:
"I yet shall learn to live ere I am dead;
I shall be firm of will, know false from true:
Each error will but show me how to do,
