HER LETTER ON HEARING HIM ILL SPOKEN OF
I THOUGHT you of a grander make
Than Nature fashioned you;
I built your image in my heart
More large, more bold, more true.
I held you to the higher aim
And wearied thus your soul,
Nor knew your timid heart preferred
A lower, easier goal.
The mountain-tops were not for you
The valley small was best;
Who upwards struggle towards the heights
Must ever know unrest.
Now you are smiling, smooth, content
And easily forget
The mountain-tops your bleeding feet
Trod long ago,—and yet!
Sometimes a long-forgotten thrill
Wakes 'neath the solemn stars,
Your valley small a prison is
Though flowers conceal its bars.—
The quiet midnight speaks to you,
You draw a sobbing breath!
You'll climb once more those star-crowned heights
The other side of death!
