Bayard Taylor (1825–1878)

THE SOUL goes forth and finds no resting place

On the wide breast of Life’s unquiet sea

But in the heart of Man. The blazonry

Of Wealth and Power fades out, and leaves no trace;

Renown’s fresh laurels for a while may grace

The brow that wears them, but the dazzling tree

Has canker in its heart; Philosophy

Is not Content, and Art’s immortal face

Is trenched with weary furrows: but the heart

Hoards in its cells the satisfying dew

Which all our thirst is powerless to exhaust.

Let Life’s uncertain dignities depart,

And if one single manly heart be true,

My own, contented, counts them cheaply lost.