DISHEARTENED

IN cottage, palace, saloon or street,
We meet with a friendly nod or smile;
And little we know the weary while
Of the sick and withering hearts we meet.

We carry a mask to hide a woe;
We drag a burden from place to place;
And no one sees, through a smiling face,
That a soul sits wringing her hands below.

We hide our burdens as best we may,
We potter and palter to present things;
We kneel at the thrones of money kings,
And pawn our manhood, and pass away

To be forgotten. ’Tis just as well.
We pool our lives with the struggling crowd.
We listen to voices, blatant, loud,
Of Rights and Wrongs, and Heaven or Hell,

And say to ourselves, no mortal knows
The whence we came or whither we go,
Or whether one creed be true or no,
Or aught that governs our last repose.

I sit and listen, and think, and wait:
I rise at five in the wintry murk
To ponder and delve at weary work,
And look in vain for the golden gate.

My failing eyes shall never behold
But dead, white hills in the morning gray,
And cold, dull gleams at the close of day,
And gates beyond—that are not of gold.