And I gave up the chase in sullen despair.
I entered the lists of the busy world:
I took up its burden of care,
Its wrongs to be righted, its sorrows to lift,
Its mountains of trouble to bear;
And wearied, I laid me at last to rest.
I awoke,—and the bird was within my breast.
An Illumined Text.
The gray monk, rising, with a loving pride