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 fixèd 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. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...I PAY MY DEBT FOR LAFAYETTE AND ROCHAMBEAU' by EDGAR LEE MASTERS TO WHISTLER, AMERICAN; ON LOAN EXHIBIT OF PAINTINGS AT TATE GALLERY by EZRA POUND FLEMING HELPHENSTINE by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON HE GOADS HIMSELF by LOUIS UNTERMEYER OWEN SEAMAN; ESTABLISHES ENTENE CORDIALE IN MANNER GUY WETMORE CARRYL by LOUIS UNTERMEYER THE STIRRUP-CUP by LOUIS UNTERMEYER |