By whom all love, all life is given,
Who oft the scoffer’s jest hath riven?
The Poet.
Who pauses, nor with hasty tread
Stalks o’er the turf-hid, silent dead:
Weeping, although no tear is shed?
The Poet.
Who, when his eye is glazed and dim,
And life a dying ember’s gleam,
Relies on, finds a friend in Him?