I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need
Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best
Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state
Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed,
And post o'er land and ocean without rest;
They also serve who only stand and wait.'"
And each time that I read that poem I fell into a strange brooding mood. A mood from which later on sprang my greatest defeat and my greatest conquest. By-and-by I bought the poems of Lord Byron, Keats, and also of Longfellow, and not a single day passed without my being able to do a little reading. That does not mean, however, that I read all the poems contained in a book. Far from it. When I bought a new book I used to turn over the leaves until I found a poem which I liked very much, and that one poem I kept reading over and over again. It happened also that I used to read a poem on account of one passage only. There is, for example, one poem by Lord Byron, commencing thus:
"Ah! Love was never yet without
The pang, the agony, the doubt."