I Ponder On Life

I ponder on life:—
On fame and unrequited toil,—
On anxious young men and young women—
Troubled in the day of their dreams,—
On hard-pressed men of trade,—
And the public cheat held in high esteem;—
On the patient artist buying with his youth—
That which he shall gain in age—
But cannot enjoy, the day of pleasure being past;—
On the young man striving to think of God;—
I ponder on the tragedy of idealists—
Living in a very real world,—
On ministers grown larger than their doctrine,—
On the chance-taker who has lost,—
And on him who has won;—
On proud, idle women,—
And humble toiling ones;—
On the tired worker in the shop,—
And the troubled master in the shop,—
And jobless men wandering, ever wandering;—
On solitary women who sit in gloom,—
On the bride and the bridegroom—
And the secret chamber that is theirs,—
On the dead love of them that still live,—
On the mystery of the mother's love,—
And the agony of ungrateful children loved;—
On lonely sailors out at sea,—
Ever watching for hidden death;—
On mad dictators of trembling nations,—
And the agonies of wars;—
I ponder on myself, indifferently honest,—
Breathless on the roaring highway of time.—
Let me forgive much, forget more,—
Remembering only what is beautiful,—
That in my day dreams—
The picture may grow softer and stiller,—
And life again grow gentle.—
—
I ponder on life:—
On fame and unrequited toil,—
On anxious young men and young women—
Troubled in the day of their dreams,—
On hard-pressed men of trade,—
And the public cheat held in high esteem;—
On the patient artist buying with his youth—
That which he shall gain in age—
But cannot enjoy, the day of pleasure being past;—
On the young man striving to think of God;—
I ponder on the tragedy of idealists—
Living in a very real world,—
On ministers grown larger than their doctrine,—
On the chance-taker who has lost,—
And on him who has won;—
On proud, idle women,—
And humble toiling ones;—
On the tired worker in the shop,—
And the troubled master in the shop,—
And jobless men wandering, ever wandering;—
On solitary women who sit in gloom,—
On the bride and the bridegroom—
And the secret chamber that is theirs,—
On the dead love of them that still live,—
On the mystery of the mother's love,—
And the agony of ungrateful children loved;—
On lonely sailors out at sea,—
Ever watching for hidden death;—
On mad dictators of trembling nations,—
And the agonies of wars;—
I ponder on myself, indifferently honest,—
Breathless on the roaring highway of time.—
Let me forgive much, forget more,—
Remembering only what is beautiful,—
That in my day dreams—
The picture may grow softer and stiller,—
And life again grow gentle.