That from Joy’s too full cup to others sent
Drops overflowing to me may belong.
Let me be ’mid the laughter-loving throng,
To my dead heart their life-passion be lent,
Who now am but a beggar worn and bent,
Crouched down by others’ fires when winds are strong.
That it could not have lasted, well I know—
Too few—alas!—youth’s years now left to me;
Love’s spared itself a hideous tragedy,
Than which none bitterer life has to show—