 | Songs of A Wayfarer |  |
CXXXV.
[Natures there are so over-sensitive]
Natures there are so over-sensitive,An act of awkwardness will leave a sting
Within them, as it were a sinful thing,
And echo of a mistimed word will give
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Sometimes in tranquil hours awakening
A cry of subtle pain, remembering:
Thus life in joy and strength can never thrive.
But such should recollect, within the soul
There dwells a power sufficient for its needs;
And he who would his noblest self control
Must be the arbiter of all its deeds:
For not alone he reaches Fame's true goal
Who on the field of battle fights and bleeds.
| Songs of A Wayfarer | |