His epitaph shall mock the short-lived stone, He needs these few and simple lines alone "Here lies a Poet. Stranger, if to thee His claim to memory be obscure, If thou wouldst learn how truly great was he, Go, ask it of the poor." SONNETS. I. TO A. C. L. THROUGH suffering and sorrow thou hast passed Whose strength gives warrant of good fruit at last: II. WHAT were I, Love, if I were stripped of thee, Without thee I were naked, bleak, and bare Would be as fruitless as a stream which still I WOULD not have this perfect love of ours It should grow alway like that eastern tree Whose limbs take root and spread forth constantly; That love for one, from which there doth not spring Wide love for all, is but a worthless thing. Not in another world, as poets prate, Dwell we apart above the tide of things, High floating o'er earth's clouds on faery wings; But our pure love doth ever elevate Into a holy bond of brotherhood All earthly things, making them pure and good. IV. "FOR this true nobleness I seek in vain, My life-springs are dried up with burning pain." Look inward through the depths of thine own soul |