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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=395978" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>John Farrell</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=395978" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The pen falls from his nerveless hand,<br>The light is fading from his eyes,<br>The brain that nobly served his land<br>Darkens and dies.<br>No, never dies! From hour to hour<br>The burning thought is living still;<br>Onward it speeds with gath’ring power<br>To strengthen and fulfil. <br>Build him no mockery of stone,<br>Nor shame him with your idle praise;<br>He liveth in his work alone<br>Through all our days.<br>Sleep, heart of gold, ’twas not in vain<br>You loved the struggling and the poor<br>And taught in sweet yet strenuous strain<br>To battle and endure. </a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=395978" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">The lust of wealth, the pride of place,<br>Were not a light to guide thy feet,<br>But larger hopes and wider space<br>For hearts to beat.<br>O, brother, dead! Thus, one by one,<br>Our broken swords remain to tell<br>The fight is o’er, the work is done,<br>Sleep! “It is well.”</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=George+Essex+Evans">George Essex Evans</a></strong></div>

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