Were withered with convulsions; and his mouth
Was circled by a rim of ghastly white,
Like that about his eyes, betokening
How well-nigh had the struggle worn him out.
He walked and muttered to himself, and made
All passionate gestures forced by agony,
Till his first strength was spent, then flung him down,
And wept as woman weeps—a flood of tears.
Heaven sent us tears! How would the weak survive
When their great sorrows crush them, if their grief
Were softened by no weeping? Oh, thank God,
Who gives us tears for sorrow's medicine.
And by and by he rose upright, and stood
Once more in the full moonlight, pale and still,
A statue of sweet sorrow: his short curls
Dank and disheveled on his youthful brow;
And his eyes bright with moisture, and the light
Of an unquenchable spirit. Proudly thus,
With a half-conquered anguish at his heart,
He gave his sorrow vocal utterance:
What am I? a poet only,
A poor poet little gifted;
Yet this creature, low and lonely,
Once his passionate eyes hath lifted
In a love too fond and daring:
And for this great sin, O Heaven,
Be his punishment unsparing—
Be his foul heart stung and riven!
And this poet is ambitious—
Singing his own songs at pleasure—
Therefore for this wrong malicious,
The world hates him without measure.
O just world! O tender woman!
Would my heart like yours were iron!
