PUBLISHED WITH THE PERMISSION OF THE PRESIDENT THROUGH SPECIAL ARRANGEMENT WITH THE CENTURY CO., MESSRS. CHARLES SCRIBNER’S SONS, AND G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life. Life piled on life Were all too little, and of one to me Little remains: but every hour is saved From that eternal silence, something more, A bringer of new things; and vile it were For some three suns to store and hoard myself, And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought. ... My mariners, Souls that have toil’d, and wrought, and thought with me— That …
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