No, I will smile no more. If but for pride
And the high record of these days of pain,
I will not be as these, the uncrucified
Who idly live and find life's pleasures vain.
The garment of my lofe is rent in twain,
Parted by love and pity. Some have died
Of a less hurt than 'twas my luck to gain,
And live with God, nor dare I be denied.

No, I will smile no more. Love's touch of pleasure
Shall be as tears to me, fair words as gall,
The sun as blackness, friends as a false measure,
And Spring's blithe pageant on this earthly ball,
If it should brag, shall earn from me no praise
But silence only to my end of days.