 | The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston |  |
TO ALL SAD OF HEART.
I heard one cry, “The day is well nigh done;
The sun is setting, and the night is near,—
The night wherein no moon or stars appear,
And to whose gloom succeeds no joyful sun;
The race is ended, and the prize is won,—
What prize hast thou?” I rose with heavy cheer,
Stretched empty hands, and said, “No prize is here;
My feet were bruised, so that I might not run.”
The sun is setting, and the night is near,—
The night wherein no moon or stars appear,
And to whose gloom succeeds no joyful sun;
The race is ended, and the prize is won,—
What prize hast thou?” I rose with heavy cheer,
Stretched empty hands, and said, “No prize is here;
My feet were bruised, so that I might not run.”
Of victors wreathed I saw a goodly throng;
But turned mine eyes from these to where, apart,
Sad men moved wearily, with heads down-hung.
I cried, “O ye who know Grief's poisonous smart,
Brothers! accept me, now; for from my heart
To yours I send the passion of my song!”
But turned mine eyes from these to where, apart,
Sad men moved wearily, with heads down-hung.
I cried, “O ye who know Grief's poisonous smart,
Brothers! accept me, now; for from my heart
To yours I send the passion of my song!”
| The Collected Poems of Philip Bourke Marston | |