My torch from me was wrested,
and wrested.

How often with a succoring cup
Unto the hurt I hasted!
The wounded died ere I came up;
My cup was still untasted,--
Untasted.

Of darkness, wounds, and harsh disdain
Endured, I ne'er repented.
'T is not of these I would complain:
With these I were contented,--
Contented.

Here lies the misery, to feel
No work of love completed;
In prayerless passion still to kneel,
And mourn, and cry: "Defeated
Defeated!"




MAY AND MARRIAGE.


THE LOVER WHO THINKS.

Dost thou remember, Love, those hours