And he himself—did he know it all?
Had he look’d, in his youth,
Past the shadows of form to the substance of truth?
Had he learn’d that all life turns to seasons, and shifts
From winter and spring into summer and fall?
Or divined that eternity, balancing gifts,
Grants honor like heaven, a state after strife,
And a glorified name to a sacrificed life?
Did he know that sighs, when yearning for love,
Best open the soul to breathe in from above
The air immortal, and make it worth while
That art should chisel in marble clear
The lines divine that temper a smile
Beyond the sway of a mortal’s cheer?—
Did he know it or not, perchance for his good
His work was lonely and misunderstood.
Perchance it was well, the best for the soul,
Its nature, its nurture, that aught to control
The aims inspiring his life or its plan
Had gain’d but little from earth or man.