Page:A midsummer holiday and other poems (IA midsummerholiday00swin).pdf/148

 A man was born, sang, suffered, loved, and died. Men scorned him living: let us praise him dead. His life was brief and bitter, gently led And proudly, but with pure and blameless pride. He wrought no wrong toward any; satisfied With love and labour, whence our souls are fed With largesse yet of living wine and bread. Come, let us praise him: here is nought to hide. Make bare the poor dead secrets of his heart, Strip the stark-naked soul, that all may peer, Spy, smirk, sniff, snap, snort, snivel, snarl, and sneer: Let none so sad, let none so sacred part Lie still for pity, rest unstirred for shame, But all be scanned of all men. This is fame.