And much it grieved my heart to think What man has made of man.
The fretful stir Unprofitable, and the fever of the world Have hung upon the beatings of my heart.
What is pride? A rocket that emulates the stars.
The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
Every gift of noble origin Is breathed upon by Hope's perpetual breath.
When his veering gait And every motion of his starry train Seem governed by a strain Of music, audible to him alone.