Strive not to say the whole! The Poet, in his Art

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

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, …

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.

Ah, me! the vision has vanished— The music has died away!

And all but their faith overthrown.

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