The riddle of the West unsolved—stood not
In the same light to set his worthiness,
As when an unimagined Future streamed
All over him in glory. Yet he stood
In that light lonely, as in the old dark,
Lonely, but looking to that light for life.
Spring-pinioned Hope impetuously flew,
And saw, through the deep Future shedding balm,
His fame a tree in flower.
If that were all?