POE TRY.
LIFE'S TRAGEDIES.
Thou art not to be pitied, who haat known The threat of midnight when the forelands moan And all the winds are out; Dread and despair and anguish,—the great things That sit like crowns upon the brows of Kings Or that Queens weep about —If by these only thou hast been accursed, Grieve not too much ; for these are not the worst It is the slow and softly-dropping tears That bring the furrows to man's face ; the years, Falling and fall'n in vain, That turn the gold to grey upon his head; And the dull days to disappointment wed, And pain that follows pain That make life bitter in the mouth, and strew
The dead with roses, but the quick with yew.
Better a wide and windy world, and scope For rise and downfall of a mighty hope, Than many little ills; Better the sudden horror, the swift wrong, Than doubts and cares that die not, and the long Monotony that kills ; The empty dawns, pale stars, and narrow skies, Mean hopes, mean fears, mean sorrows, and mean sighs.
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