A far look in absorbed eyes, unaware Of what some gazer thrills to gather there;
A happy voice, singing to itself apart,
That pulses new blood through a listener's heart;
Old fortitude; and, 'mid an hour of dread,
The scorn of all odds in a proud young head;— These are themselves, and being but what they are,
Of others' praise or pity have no care,
Yet still are magnets to another's need.
Invisibly as wind, blowing stray seed,
Life breathes on life, though ignorant what it brings,
And spirit touches spirit on the strings Where music is: courage from courage glows In secret; shy powers to themselves unclose;
And the most solitary hope, that gray Patience has sister'd, ripens far away In young bosoms.
Oh, we have failed and failed,
And never knew if we or the world ailed,
Clouded and thwarted; yet perhaps the best Of all we do and dream of lives unguessed.
