And the tears that rise to its mourners’ eyes
Will ever dim all they track.
Chill, shivering breast, freeze, freeze into rest:
My boy will never come back.
THE POET’S LESSON.
“O poet vain, put by thy pen,
Put by this dreamy mood,
Move outward through the walks of men;
And do the world some good.”
These words I heard, and waived my will,