I know, dear friend, deep in my heart I know
My verse is pale and faint and lacking power.
Oft for its weakness do I sadly grieve,
And pour forth secret tears at night's still hour.

In vain at times forth from my lips would burst
A cry of anguish I can scarce endure;
In vain at times love almost burns my soul—
Cold is our tongue, and lamentably poor.

The rainbow of the flowers of many kinds,
Sweet music dying on the chord away,
Grief for ideals, and tears for liberty—
How tell of these in words of every day?

This boundless world outspread before our eyes,
The world of mind, so full of anxious fear—
How draw them true to life, with timid strokes,
Pent in my verse's narrow framework here?

But to be mute while hearing sounds of woe
That to allay we struggle eagerly—
Beneath the storm of strife, in face of pain,
Wounded, I cannot, will not silent be.

If hero-like I may not shatter chains,
Nor prophet-like spread light sublime and clear,
I with the crowd have mixed, and share its pain,
And give, as strength permits me, help and cheer.