Poor heart, that wast so proud, how art thou tamed,
Broken to harness in the teem of sorrow,
Taking such mead as falls to thee unclaimed—
Pale, momentary joys that have no morrow.
Where are the once fond hopes so fondly held,
Thy dreams of conquest, and thy glad contriving?
Gone with the frank young spirit that rebelled
And suffered; gone, and so with fate conniving!
And yet withal, poor heart, thou standest firm,
And not too sad, life's puzzle still revolving;
Still facing withered eld, the grave, the worm,—
And all a world of promises dissolving.
Like a blind beggar smiling to the sun,
Patient in need, nor alms nor help demanding,
Thou standest, nought expecting, little done,—
And so, poor heart, poor heart! I leave thee standing.