The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.

We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.

Too long, that some may rest, tired millions toil unblest.

In this world with starry dome,Floored with gemlike plains and seas,Shall I never feel at home,Never wholly be at ease?

Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

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.

She is not old, she is not young, The Woman with the Serpent's Tongue. The haggard cheek, the hungering eye, The poisoned words that wildly fly, The famished face, the fevered hand, Who slights the worthiest in the land, Sneers at the just, contemns the brave, And blackens goodness in its grave.