Oft would my soul sing, but the heart, her lyre,
Tear-wet and warped by mine and other's woe,
Lies in the dust unstrung, whilst flicker slow
The embers of its faint and fading fire;
So here I sit and watch the moments flow
As into past-times' realm the years retire,
With scant gleaned grain within my hands to show,--
Scant grain of deed or song, my soul's desire
If now God's messenger, pale d**h, should ask:--
"What good hast thou to show for these thy years?
Hast thou made thy life real, or but a masque?"
What answer could I give? Of which one task,
By grace whereof men's smiles were lit or tears
Dried, could I say: "My scroll the record bears?"