Smother with ashes fall’n from passion’s pyre
The saving spark of pity’s faint appeal?—
Dost thou not know the shame that we must feel,
Enslaved by him that was our slave, Desire?
We are so tired!... surely Thou dost know
(Granting that Thou art God, for argument)
How weary are the windings and how slow
The steps whereby our final course is bent,
How widely chill the days, how bleak the gloom?
Surely there is no need for other doom?—