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Dead Honour risen outdoes Love at last.

Your life is like a little winter’s day

Whose sad sun rises late to set too soon;

You have just come—why will you go away,

Making an evening of what should be noon.

Your life is like a little flute complaining

A long way off, beyond the willow trees:

A long way off, and nothing left remaining

But memory of a music on the breeze.

Your life is like a pitiful leave-taking

Wept in a dream before a man’s awaking,

A Call with only shadows to attend:

A Benediction whispered and belated

Which has no fruit beyond a consecrated,

A consecrated silence at the end.

Now shall the certain purpose of my soul

By blind and empty things controlled be,

And mine audacious course to that far goal

Fall short, confessing mere mortality.

Limbs shall have movement and ignore their living,

Brain wit, that he his quickness may deny.

My promised hope forswears in act of giving,

Time eats me up and makes my words a lie.

And mine unbounded dream has found a bar,