That beats the stubborn bars of Fate’s control.
My foolish heart whispered, there is no God,
And if there is, let cravens fear his rod:
Be thy own god, slake thy imperious thirst
Where’er thou wilt, no fountain is accurst.
Many strange paths my restless feet had sought,
Not all ignoble, but to each I brought
The turbulence of will that grasps at all,
And, failing, breaks itself against the wall.
Too late I knew my impotence at last,