Like one he was who, bleeding from the strife,
Pleads at the Refuge-City's barriered gate;
His was a wound, made by the sword of Life,
Kept open by the thrusts of Fate.

Talent was his, and yet he could not brook
The stronger wing that reached the higher cloud;
And rather than be less, he rashly took
The life whose garland proved a shroud:

As though a star — some late-created World —
Angered at God because of lessened light,
Should dash itself to Chaos, and be hurled
Back into starless voids of night.