Ye Chaste, who nurse your souls upon chill heights,
What can you give us but a dead world?

I have walked too long in the strait road,
I have kept my limbs from the dance,
I have flung no songs to the Stars.
What have I for my stillness, but a tale of things undone!

Rather had I borne the common yoke,
Better had I made a fellow of Sin
Than win this sterile victory.

O! moving Powers, inflame me,
Lead me to some brave combat,
Though then you throw me to deep Hell
With one full memory.

Now I surrender a pale heaven
Of unbegotten spirits, and of unfilled days.