Care Is A Poet Fine: He Works In Shade Or Shine, And Leaves, You Know His Sign! No Day Without Its Line. He Writes With Iron Pen Upon The Brows Of Men; Faint Lines At First, And Then He Scores Them In Again. His Touch At First Is Light On Beauty'S Brow Of White; The Old Churl Loves To Write On Foreheads Broad And Bright. A Line For Young Love Crossed, A Line For Fair Hopes Lost In An Untimely Frost, A Line That Means Thou Wast. Then Deeper Script Appears: The Furrows Of Dim Fears, The Traces Of Old Tears, The Tide-Marks Of The Years. To Him With Sight Made Strong By Suffering And Wrong, The Brows Of All The Throng Are Eloquent With Song.