All things have power to hold us back.
Our very hopes build up a wall
Of doubt, whose shadow stretches black
O’er all.
The dreams, that helped us once, become
Dread disappointments, that oppose
Dead eyes to ours, and lips made dumb
With woes.
The thoughts that opened doors before
Within the mind’s house, hide away;
Discouragement hath locked the door
For aye.
Come, loss, more frequently than gain!
And failure than success! until
The spirit’s struggle to attain
Is still!
REQUIEM
I
No more for him, where hills look down,
Shall Morning crown
Her rainy brow with blossom bands!—
The Morning Hours, whose rosy hands
Drop wild-flowers of the breaking skies
Upon the sod ’neath which he lies.—
No more for him! No more! no more!
II
No more for him, where waters sleep,
Shall Evening heap
The long gold of the perfect days!
The Eventide, whose warm hand lays
Great poppies of the afterglow
Upon the turf he rests below.—
No more for him! No more! no more!