XVII
Lay not reproach at the drunkard’s door
Oh Fanatic, thou that art pure of soul;
Not thine on the page of life to enrol
The faults of others! Or less or more
I have swerved from my path—keep thou to thine own!
For every man when he reaches the goal
Shall reap the harvest his hands have sown.
Leave me the hope of a former grace—
Till the curtain is lifted none can tell