Too lovingly triumphant, and too large;
But there are some that hear him, and they know
That he shall sing to-morrow for all men,
And that all time shall listen.
The master-songs are ended?—Rather say
No songs are ended that are ever sung,
And that no named are dead names. When we write
Men's letters on proud marble or on sand,
We write them there forever.
All, shuddering men that falter and shrink so
To look on death,—what were the days we live,
Where life is half a struggle to forgive,
But for the love that finds us when we go?
Is God a jester?—Does he laugh and throw
Poor branded wretches here to sweat and strive
For some vague end that never shall arrive?—
And is He not yet weary of the show?
Think of it, all ye millions that have planned,
And only planned, the largess of hard youth!
Think of it, all ye builders on the sand,
Whose works are down!—Is love so small, forsooth?
Be brave! To-morrow you will understand
The doubt, the pain, the triumph, and the Truth!
AN OLD STORY
Strange that I did not know him then,
That friend of mine!—
I did not even show him then
One friendly sign;
But cursed him for the ways he had
To make me see
My envy of the praise he had
For praising me.