CHAPTER XXVI
THE SWORD HANGS
(1885–1890)
Life is no holiday: therein
Are want and woe and sin,
Death with nameless fears; and over all
Our pitying tears must fall.
The hour draws near, howe’er delayed or late,
When, at the Eternal Gate,
We leave the words and works we call our own,
And lift void hands alone
For love to fill. Our nakedness of soul