W. T. H. Howe

Friend, for the sake of loves we hold in common, The love of books, of paintings, rhyme and fiction; And for the sake of that divine affliction, The love of art, passing the love of woman;-- By which all life's made nobler, superhuman, Lifting the soul above, and, without friction Of Time, that puts failure in his prediction,-- Works to some end through hearts that dreams illumine: To you I pour this Cup of Dreams--a striver, And dreamer too in this sad world,--unwitting Of that you do, the help that still assureth,-- Lifts up the heart, struck down by that dark driver, Despair, who, on Life's pack-horse--effort--sitting, Rides down Ambition through whom Art endureth.