Who, when his hoary head
Is wept into the tomb,
With dreams, that are not dead,
Still gives his name perfume.
NEPENTHE
Ah, it is well for men to strain
And strive and yearn to rise;
The soul’s salvation is in pain,
In toil and sacrifice.
The grandest souls that rose above,
Thought’s noblest heights to tread,
Found consolation in their love,
And life behind the dead.
A living glory in the tomb,
Whose night shall end in light;
An intense splendor veiled with gloom,
Too blinding for earth’s sight.
Nepenthe of this struggling world,
Whose knowledge comforts care,
And in the heart, where it is curled,
Conquers the snake, despair.
ON A DIAL
Look on my face: to-morrow
I am to-day.
From me you may not borrow
Or take away.
I mark life’s mirth and sorrow,
Birth and decay.
I know nor joy nor sadness:
I go, yet stay:
And men in me find gladness
And grief, they say:
I stay not for their madness,
Nor pass away.