Gathering a little gold, a little fame,
A thousand nothings. What, I say, know you
Of my deep, inward, real, wonderful life?
My wild emprizes, foolishnesses, fears,
Failures, and shames, and all but acted crimes;
My half-mad waking dreams, O, yes, stark mad;
My spiritual comedies, my glooms—
Unutterable, intense, and without hope;
My secret, true, and unpraised heroisms;
My tragedies—played on the bare soul's stage,
With no eye witnessing but mine, alone—
Great God! not thine, I pray, not thine, not thine!
"SO FIERCE THE BUFFETS"
So fierce the buffets of untimely fate
He bowed his youthful head in mortal pain,
And cried: "Alas, my happy life is slain!"
Then came true sorrow, and he knew, too late,
His early woe was but a feather's weight.
TWO HEROES
Two heroes do the world's insistent work:
One rushes in the battle's blood and murk,
And, knowing the foeman flies,
In one rich moment dies.
The other, on a path he long has feared,
By bugle blast and drum-beat all uncheered,
At duty's chill behest
Gives life to want and waste.
For him, the battle hero, high we pile
The sculptured stone; his ringing name, the while,
In praises and in songs
Its lyric life prolongs.
