 
We are of baser quality: we have been Tried by fire and judged a spurious gold. We are little of soul; and yet in our pigmy way We have suffered and loved with a love that cannot be told. Being less than you, we did not eagerly quaff The cup of gall: we prayed that it might pass. We are not gods: we are pitiful human stuff; And the blood of our passion has stained Gethsemane's grass. We were not blind to the vision. We heard the call And followed, or watched our belovÈd steadfastly go. But our grief is naked, and shivers, and will not be soothed By splendid phrases, or clothed in a moral glow. We cannot say for our comfort: 'Losing them, We gain a glimpse of noble terrible heights, A cleansing exquisite pain, a sacred grief, A dream to cherish'—we think of the vanished lights; We think of the fine nerves shattered, the warm blood chilled, The laughter silenced, the zest and the beauty gone, The desolation of wasted wonderful dreams That will never be lived, of work that cannot be done. |
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