THE injuries of Time, The treacherous years, Fate's pitiless march sublime, Life's hopes and fears, Defeats, calamities; Their lives scant power in Man, to master such as these. There is no comfort left In rite or spell, For lives of love bereft, Or loved too well, Long, self-inflicted grief, Alas! Time brings for such nor solace nor relief. The princely gains of Thought, Knowledge the Queen, No remedy have brought For what has been, Nor healing balm impart; The philosophic brain soothes not the stricken heart. But who with steadfast mind And musing eye, To either fate resigned, Questions not why, For him, not all in vain Rhyme brings with honeyed tones an anodyne to pain. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...SPOT SIX DIFFERENCES by MARVIN BELL IF IT WERE NOT FOR YOU by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE IMPOSSIBLE INDISPENSIBILITY OF THE ARS POETICA by HAYDEN CARRUTH THE TEMPTRESS by JAMES WELDON JOHNSON SPECIAL PLEADING by SIDNEY LANIER STUDY FOR A GEOGRAPHICAL TRAIL; 1. SEATTLE by CLARENCE MAJOR |