For a certain unseen star's pure ray.
I want success I've missed—not fame.
You see the mother kneeling there,
The child who cries for bread in vain.
The hard straw bed, the window bare,
The rags, the rat, the broken chair,
The misery and cold and pain.
But what you don't see—(never will!)—
Is what was there while yet I drew
The lines—which are not drawn so ill,