I laughed to think how sparrows might look down upon our highest flight,
While each succeeding age would have its oracle or stagyrite,
Would trace the good we never did, the evil that we never saw,
And out of our blind pyramid extract a stepping-stone to Law.
Here, where ambition had to cease in servitude, I tasted peace,
Free of illusion stretched and yawned. A fool would clamour for release.
I make the rowers' bench a throne to think, and thought implies Alone,
Of changing woods and endless streams. My happiness is all my own.
And often, when my mates deplore a brother who shall row no more,
I talk about my wolf-cub, Life. They think I speak in metaphor.