Sometime fame shall come to me;
Sometime in the "yet to be."
Not to-day, and not to-morrow;
After years of toil and sorrow,
After losing youth and grace,
In the weary, foolish chase.
After weeks of bitter tears,
After months, and after years,
After waiting day on day,
Throwing love, and peace away,
I shall find the phantom nearing—
I shall find the shadows clearing.
I shall reach the thing I sought,
I shall reach, and find it—what?
Will it recompense, and pay
For the joys I cast away?
In the weary, weary race,
When I lost my youth, and grace?
Is it worth the wear, and strife—
Worth the best part of a life?
Thus have men and women queried,
Standing on the summit, wearied
With the long and steep ascent,
When their youth and grace were spent.
Time sweeps onward with his cycle:
Life is brief, and love is fickle.
I will pause not at his calling,
I will heed not tear-drops falling:
Fame, but Fame, will satisfy,
I shall find it by and by.
1870