They bear no laurels on their sunless brows,
Nor aught within their pale hands as they go;
They look as men accustomed to the slow
And level onward course 'neath drooping boughs.
Who may these be no trumpet doth arouse,
These of the dark processionals of woe,
Unpraised, unblamed, but whom sad Acheron's flow
Monotonously lulls to leaden drowse?
These are the Failures. Clutched by Circumstance,
They were--say not too weak!--too ready prey
To their own fear whose fixed Gorgon glance
Made them as stone for aught of great essay;--
Or else they nodded when their Master-Chance
Wound his one signal, and went on his way.