Most like to thee, the better of the twain.
Is born of us, and therefore is not pure—
Did I say that? I know not what I said;
It was a foolish humour; but, indeed,
Whatever you may think, I have not learnt
The trick of deep suppression, e’en the skill
To sort my thoughts and sift my words enough.
Not pure, indeed!—And if it is not pure,
What is? Ah, well! but most I look to the days
When these small arms, with pliant thews filled out.