Not of my lady be, this once, my lay, 
But of my songs of her be this my song;— 
My songs, that stood, a strange and unseen throng, 
About my spirit, ready to obey 
The words that grief and love might have to say. 
In this one, all the pain of hope found tongue; 
To this I said, "Go forth! and be thou strong, 
Some pity of my lady's soul to pray."

And now, poor songs, that they have done their best, 
Though weak their wings might be my love to bear,— 
Now that Joy's regal foot is on the stair 
That Grief so often trod in long unrest,— 
I will not these my faithful songs despise, 
But look on them with reverential eyes. 

What shall it profit a man
To have stood by the source of things,
To have spent the fair years of his youthful prime
In mystical questionings;
To have scaled the lovely height,
While his brothers slept below;
To have seen the vision bright
Which but few on earth may know,—
If when his task be done
He lives his life alone?
If in the busy street
None come whom he may greet?
If in his lonely room
With the night the shadows deepen into ghostly shapes of gloom?

It may be his soul may say,
"I have gained me a splendid dower;
I can look around on the toiling crowd,
With the pride of a conscious power.
I can hear the passer-by
Tell of all my world-wide fame;
I have friends I shall not see
Who dwell fondly on my name.
If the sweet smile of wife
Light not my joyless life,
If to my silent home
No childish laughter come,
Shall I no solace find
In communion with the monarchs of the fair broad realm of mind?"

But when sickness wears him, or age
Creeps on, and his soul doth yearn
For the tender hand and the soothing voice
That shall nevermore return;
When the crowd of careless friends,
Not unkind, but each one set
Safe within white walls of home,
All the world without forget,—
Shall not old memories rise
'Twixt book and weary eyes,
Till knowledge come to seem
A profitless vague dream?
Shall not he sometimes sigh
For the careless past unlearnèd, and the happy days gone by?

Ah! not to be happy alone,
Are men sent, or to be glad.
Oft-times the sweetest music is made
By the voices of the sad.
The thinker oft is bent
By a too-great load of thought;
The discoverer's soul grows sick
With the secret vainly sought;
Lonely may be the home,
No breath of fame may come,
Yet through their lives doth shine
A purple light Divine,
And a nobler pain they prove
Than the bloom of lower pleasures, or the fleeting spell of love.