HE WHO hath seen his grain-fields gather blight
Heeds not the withering of the garden flowers;
He grieves not at the day's withdrawing light
Who in a dungeon numbers his dim hours;
He feareth not the storm upon his head,
Whose garments with the rough salt wave are soaked,
And he whose fire within his house is dead,
Into the outer air will go uncloaked!

So he whose life some weak, loved hand has taken,
Flies not the shaft of banded myrmidon,
Nor trembles when his citadel is shaken:
Foretasting all, he hath no more to shun;
The Night, the Cold, the Dearth, the Wound obscure,
That men call Death, unmoved he shall endure!