And all but their faith overthrown

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

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, …

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

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.

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