Ah, me! the vision has vanished—

Of every noble work the silent part is best, Of all expression that which can not be expressed.

But the gray and the cold are haunted By a beauty akin to pain,— By the sense of a something wanted, That will never come again.

Oh! faint delicious spring-time violet, Thine odor, like a key, Turns noiselessly in memory's wards to let A thought of sorrow free.

And all but their faith overthrown.

They only the victory win, Who have fought the good fight, and have vanquished the demon that tempts us within; Who have held to their faith unseduced by the prize that the world holds on high; Who have dared for a high cause to suffer, …

Strive not to say the whole! The Poet, in his Art, Must intimate the whole, and say the smallest part.