 | Poems |  |
THE VAIN DREAM.
The scholar, he sits in his lonely room
In the heart of the noisy town,
But little he marks its bustle and din
As he pens his quick thoughts down;
He flings him back and he lives the time
When, at last to the people known,
His book shall make, with its toil of years,
A home and a name his own.
In the heart of the noisy town,
But little he marks its bustle and din
As he pens his quick thoughts down;
He flings him back and he lives the time
When, at last to the people known,
His book shall make, with its toil of years,
A home and a name his own.
The scholar, he lies in his lonely room,
On the bare cold floor he lies,
With the horror upon his upturned face
With which the self-slain dies;
On the table his work, refused, returned,
Completed, yet known to none;
And where are the fame and the laughing home
That the scholar in hope had won?
On the bare cold floor he lies,
With the horror upon his upturned face
With which the self-slain dies;
On the table his work, refused, returned,
Completed, yet known to none;
And where are the fame and the laughing home
That the scholar in hope had won?
| Poems | |