Man is man, and master of his fate.
That which we are, we are.
And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.
All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.
Live and lie reclined On the hills like Gods together, careless of mankind. For they lie beside their nectar, and the bolts are hurled Far below them in the valleys, and the clouds are lightly curled Round their golden houses, girdled with the gleaming world.
My life has crept so long on a broken wing Through cells of madness, haunts of horror and fear, That I come to be grateful at last for a little thing.