Of every noble work the silent part is best

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.

And all but their faith overthrown.

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