Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.
And though circuitous and obscureThe feet of Nemesis how sure!
Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.
Deemest thou laborOnly is earnest?Grave is all beauty,Solemn is joy.
On from room to room I stray,Yet mine Host can ne'er espy,And I know not to this day,Whether guest or captive I.
The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.