Songs of Angus: THE HAPPY WARRIOR

I have brought no store from the field now the day is ended, / The harvest moon is up and I bear no sheaves; / When the toilers carry the fruits hanging gold and splendid, / I have but leaves.

When the saints pass by in the pride of their stainless raiment, / Their brave hearts high with the joy of the gifts they bring, / I have saved no whit from the sum of my daily payment / For offering.

Not there is my place where the workman his toil delivers, / I scarce can see the ground where the hero stands, / I must wait as the one poor fool in that host of givers, / With empty hands.

There was no time lent to me that my skill might fashion / Some work of praise, some glory, some thing of light, / For the swarms of hell came on in their power and passion, / I could but fight.

I am maimed and spent, I am broken and trodden under, / With wheel and horseman the battle has swept me o'er, / And the long, vain warfare has riven my heart asunder, / I can no more.

But my soul is still; though the sundering door has hidden / The mirth and glitter, the sound of the lighted feast, / Though the guests go in and I stand in the night, unbidden, / The worst, the least.

My soul is still. I have gotten nor fame nor treasure, / Let all men spurn me, let devils and angels frown, / But the scars I bear are a guerdon of royal measure, / My stars -- my crown.