Aye! verily, the fields of blandishment
Where shepherds meditate among their cattle,
Those are the direst of the fields of battle,
For in the victor's train there is no tent.


LVII

Where are the doctors who were nobly fired
And loved their toil because we ventured not,
Who spent their lives in searching for the spot
To which the generations have retired?


LVIII

"Great is your soul,"--these are the words they preach,--
"It passes from your framework to the frame
Of others, and upon this road of shame
Turns purer and more pure."--Oh, let them teach!


LIX

I look on men as I would look on trees,
That may be writing in the purple dome
Romantic lines of black, and are at home
Where lie the little garden hostelries.