I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

A beam in darkness: let it grow.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.

I stood on a tower in the wet, And New Year and Old Year met, And winds were roaring and blowing: And I said, "O years, that meet in tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? Science enough and exploring, Wanderers coming and going, Matter enough for deploring, But aught that is worth the knowing?