by
How much would I care for it, could I know
That
when I am under the grass or snow,
The ravelled garment of life’s
brief day
Folded, and quietly laid away;
The spirit let loose from
mortal bars,
And somewhere away among the stars:
How much would you
think it would matter then
What praise was lavished upon me, when,
Whatever might be its stint or store,
It neither could help nor harm me
more?
If midst of my toil they had but thought
To
stretch a finger, I would have caught
Gladly such aid, to bear me
through
Some bitter duty I had to do:
And when it was done, had I but
heard
One breath of applause, one cheering word,
One cry of
“Courage!” amid the strife,
So weighted for me, with death or
life,
How would it have nerved my soul to strain
Through the whirl of
the coming surge again!
What use for the rope, if it be not flung
Till
the swimmer’s grasp to the rock has clung?
What help in a
comrade’s bugle-blast
When the peril of Alpine heights is past?
What need that the spurring pæan roll
When the runner is safe beyond
the goal?
What worth is eulogy’s blandest breath
When whispered in
ears that are hushed in death?
No! no! if you have but a word of cheer,
Speak it, while I am alive to hear!