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II
- One stood in the way of life
- And said: ‘I will serve and strive
- And never weary of strife
- For just so long as I live.
- ‘The sum of service I’m worth
- I swear it, beyond recall,
- To the mother of all, the earth,
- To men, the brothers of all.
- ‘I have no voice for a song,
- No trumpet nor lyre is mine,
- But my sword is sharp, and my arm is strong:
- Liberty! these are thine!’
- So he followed where high hopes led,
- And he paused not for blame or praise,
- But ever rejoiced to tread
- The roughest and rightest ways.
- He scorned ambitions and powers,
- Delight was to him but a word,
- Till Love looked out from a brake a flowers
- And called to his heart, and he heard.
- Then the man’s whole soul cried sore:
- ‘I am tired of patience and pain!
- What if the lights that have gone before
- Should be but visions and vain?
- ‘Why should my youth be spent
- In following a marsh‐light gleam?
- Why should my manhood be content
- With what may be but a dream?
- ‘The sword I am used to wield
- Is as much as my hands can hold,
- I will turn aside from the battle‐field
- To the fields where men gather gold.
- ‘For while I carry the sword
- I can hold neither gold nor you—
- And the sword is heavy, and your least word
- Is music my life sings to!’
- But the woman who loved him spake,
- She spake brave words with a sigh—
- ‘Rather than drop the sword for my sake
- Turn its point to your heart and die!
- ‘It is better to die than live
- If life means nothing but greed
- To clutch the gifts that the world can give
- And turn your back on its need.
- ‘And I have my life‐work too,
- A banner to bear have I;
- Shall my flag be dragged in the dust by you,
- Who should help me to hold it high?
- ‘Hard looks life’s every line
- When the colours of love are effaced,
- But death would be harder, O heart of mine,
- After a life disgraced!
- ‘And what though we never see
- Sweet Love’s sweet fruit at its best;
- My children’s play at your knee,
- Your baby’s sleep at my breast?
- ‘Only one life is ours—
- Shall we die with no world’s work done,
- Having covered our shame with flowers,
- And shrunk from sight of the sun?
- ‘No! Be the sword for him,
- Banner of light for me—
- Voice at the heart when the eyes grown dim,
- “Liberty! This for thee!”’
- Then he bowed him low at her knees,
- And she gave him the thorny crown
- Which whoso wears knows no rest nor ease
- Till Death bids him lay it down.
- And they turned, and they passed away
- To parting, and longing, and tears,
- To carry the sword and the flag away
- Through the cold clean desolate years,
- To work for the world, and to hear
- When the long race nearly is run,
- Like a voice in a dream, a voice most dear,
- ‘Faithful and good, well done!’
- And no man remembers his name,
- Nor hers, who was never his wife.
- Their names are written in letters of flame
- In the book of eternal life.
