The Philosopher

The grim immensities are mine,
The sunlight on the brook is theirs;
I drink the lees of bitter wine,
Fate grants a gift to all their prayers.

I stammer, all afire to tell
The thoughts that urge for life like pain;
For them words brim the shallow well
Like easy drops of summer rain.

And which, ah, Heaven, which is best--
The little lute for every mood,
Or, shrinking coldly from life's test,
The heights and depths of solitude?