For me, few solemn notes have swelled;
Love bekoned me out to the dawn,
And happily I followed on.
And yet my heart goes out to them
Whose sorrow is their diadem;
The falling leaf, the crying bird,
The voice to be, all lost, unheard—
Not mine, not mine, and yet too much
The thrilling power of human touch,
While all the world looks on and scorns