HOW hardly doth the cold and careless world

Requite the toil divine of genius-souls,

Their wasting cares and agonizing throes!

I had a friend, a sweet and precious friend,

One passing rich in all the strange and rare,

And fearful gifts of song.

A poem in twelve cantos, she had toiled

From early girlhood, e’en till she became

An olden maid.

She sunk at last—just at the “finis” sunk!—

And closed her eyes for ever! The soul-gem

Had fretted through its casket!

Beside her tomb, I made a solemn vow

To take in charge that poor, lone orphan work,

And edit it!

A learned man and good. He took the work,

Read here and there a line, then laid it down,

And said, “It would not pay.” I slowly turned,

And went my way with troubled brow, “but more

In sorrow than in anger.”