A poem by Jean Ingelow

We are much bound to them that do succeed;
But, in a more pathetic sense, are bound
To such as fail. They all our loss expound;
They comfort us for work that will not speed,
And life - itself a failure.
Ay, his deed,
Sweetest in story, who the dusk profound
Of Hades flooded with entrancing sound,
Music's own tears, was failure. Doth it read
Therefore the worse? Ah, no! so much, to dare,
He fronts the regnant Darkness on its throne. -
So much to do; impetuous even there,
He pours out love's disconsolate sweet moan -
He wins; but few for that his deed recall:
Its power is in the look which costs him all.

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