They live within themselves -- they may not tell
What lieth deepest there;
Within their breast a heaven or a hell,
Joy or tormenting care.
They are the loneliest men that walk men's ways,
No matter what they seem;
The stars and sunlight of their nights and days
Move over them in dream.
They breathe it forth -- their very spirit's breath --
To bless the world or blight;
To bring to men a higher life or death;
To give them light or night.
The words of some command the world's acclaim,
And never pass away,
While others' words receive no palm from fame,
And live but for a day.
But, live or die, their words leave their impress
Fore'er or for an hour,
And mark men's souls -- some more and some the less --
With good's or evil's power.
A Legend
He walked alone beside the lonely sea,
The slanting sunbeams fell upon his face,
His shadow fluttered on the pure white sands
Like the weary wing of a soundless prayer.
And He was, oh! so beautiful and fair!
Brown sandals on His feet -- His face downcast,
As if He loved the earth more than the heav'ns.
His face looked like His Mother's -- only hers
Had not those strange serenities and stirs
That paled or flushed His olive cheeks and brow.
He wore the seamless robe His Mother made --
And as He gathered it about His breast,
The wavelets heard a sweet and gentle voice
Murmur, "Oh! My Mother" -- the white sands felt
The touch of tender tears He wept the while.
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