Page:The poems of Richard Watson Gilder, Gilder, 1908.djvu/367

Rh Gathering a little gold, a little fame,

A thousand nothings. What, I say, know you

Of my deep, inward, real, wonderful life?

My wild emprizes, foolishnesses, fears,

Failures, and shames, and all but acted crimes;

My half-mad waking dreams, O, yes, stark mad;

My spiritual comedies, my glooms—

Unutterable, intense, and without hope;

My secret, true, and unpraised heroisms;

My tragedies—played on the bare soul's stage,

With no eye witnessing but mine, alone—

Great God! not thine, I pray, not thine, not thine!

"SO FIERCE THE BUFFETS"

TWO HEROES

heroes do the world's insistent work:

One rushes in the battle's blood and murk,

And, knowing the foeman flies,

In one rich moment dies.

The other, on a path he long has feared,

By bugle blast and drum-beat all uncheered,

At duty's chill behest

Gives life to want and waste.

For him, the battle hero, high we pile

The sculptured stone; his ringing name, the while,

In praises and in songs

Its lyric life prolongs.