by A. C. Benson
Set one deep mark upon the face of time,
Let one absorbing laughter, one grave rhyme
Ring in the heedless wind that hurries by.
Yon smooth-limbed beech, that hangs upon the slope
With branching spray, with firm and shapely arm,
Hath, could'st thou write it, a bewildering charm
Would gild thy name beyond thy utmost hope!
O soul, my soul, be true, laborious, just, --
And some chance word, some penetrating smile,
Flashed with no purpose, no impulsive aim,
Shall live, and breed strong thoughts, when thou art dust;
And mount, and gather strength, and roll in flame
Beyond the utmost Orient's utmost isle!
From The Yellow Book, VII (January, 1895), p.191.
