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6

SONNET IV
CONFESSION OF MY FAITH

II.

Love crowns the careless men who seek her not
With hand capricious, but she leaveth those
Who loyally the first her service chose
With tears the path of every day to blot;
She leaveth them, it seemeth, quite forgot;
The current of her favour onward flows
And over heads of former victims goes
In haste to fertilize some other spot.
But, O my brothers, let us yet be true,
And though she slays us, gives us no relief,
Yet notwithstanding let us be the chief
Of those who on the earth are found to do
Her work, and prominently bring to view
The lineaments that smite us low with grief.
1870.