Xxiv

The Philosopher

The grim immensities are mine, The sunlight on the brook is theirs; I drink the lees of bitter wine, Fate grants a gift to all their prayers.

I stammer, all afire to tell The thoughts that urge for life like pain; For them words brim the shallow well Like easy drops of summer rain.

And which, ah, Heaven, which is best-- The little lute for every mood, Or, shrinking coldly from life's test, The heights and depths of solitude?