XXXII.

Ventures.

Finite to fail, but infinite to venture. 
  For the one ship that struts the shore
Many’s the gallant, overwhelmed creature
  Nodding in navies nevermore.

XXXIII.

Griefs.

I measure every grief I meet
  With analytic eyes;
I wonder if it weighs like mine,
  Or has an easier size.

I wonder if they bore it long,
  Or did it just begin? 
I could not tell the date of mine,
  It feels so old a pain.

I wonder if it hurts to live,
  And if they have to try,
And whether, could they choose between,
  They would not rather die.

I wonder if when years have piled —­
  Some thousands —­ on the cause
Of early hurt, if such a lapse
  Could give them any pause;

Or would they go on aching still
  Through centuries above,
Enlightened to a larger pain
  By contrast with the love.

The grieved are many, I am told;
  The reason deeper lies, —­
Death is but one and comes but once,
  And only nails the eyes.

There’s grief of want, and grief of cold, —­
  A sort they call ‘despair;’
There’s banishment from native eyes,
  In sight of native air.

And though I may not guess the kind
  Correctly, yet to me
A piercing comfort it affords
  In passing Calvary,

To note the fashions of the cross,
  Of those that stand alone,
Still fascinated to presume
  That some are like my own.

XXXIV.

I have a king who does not speak;
So, wondering, thro’ the hours meek
  I trudge the day away,—­
Half glad when it is night and sleep,
If, haply, thro’ a dream to peep
  In parlors shut by day.

And if I do, when morning comes,
It is as if a hundred drums
  Did round my pillow roll,
And shouts fill all my childish sky,
And bells keep saying ‘victory’
  From steeples in my soul!

And if I don’t, the little Bird
Within the Orchard is not heard,
  And I omit to pray,
‘Father, thy will be done’ to-day,
For my will goes the other way,
  And it were perjury!

XXXV.

Disenchantment.

It dropped so low in my regard
  I heard it hit the ground,
And go to pieces on the stones
  At bottom of my mind;

Yet blamed the fate that fractured, less
  Than I reviled myself
For entertaining plated wares
  Upon my silver shelf.

XXXVI.

Lost faith.

To lose one’s faith surpasses
  The loss of an estate,
Because estates can be
  Replenished, —­ faith cannot.