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and so, we have to suffer! Burns, Byron, Leopardi, Heine, Musset, Baudelaire, Clough, Thomson—greater and lesser, this is true of them all! Their early life is embittered by it, their later life made desperate. “Years back,” says Gordon,

“Years back I believed a little,

and as I believed I spoke.”

Years back he could utter prayer, years back when he was a child. He cannot utter it now: “For prayer must die since hope is dead.” Now he can only wonder

“Is there nothing real but confusion?

is nothing certain but death?

is nothing fair, save illusion?

is nothing good that has breath?...”

“I can hardly vouch,” he says, again,

“I can hardly vouch

for the truth of what little I see....

On earth there’s little worth a sigh,

and nothing worth a tear.”

But ah,

“the restless throbbings and burnings

that hope unsatisfied brings,

the weary longings and yearnings

for the mystical better things....

There are others toiling and straining

’neath burdens graver than mine—

They are weary, yet uncomplaining—