The devil, that old stager, who leads downward, perhaps, but fiddles all the way!
Each life unfulfilled, you see; It hangs still, patchy and scrappy: We have not sighed deep, laughed free, Starved, feasted, despaired,โbeen happy.
how sad and bad and mad it was - but then, how it was sweet
Stung by the splendour of a sudden thought.
Who knows most, doubts most.
In the morning of the world, When earth was nigher heaven than now.