It worth to live,—our custom has such art
To dull the craving of the famished heart,—
Perchance had never known it, but a light
Flashed in his path and lit a fiery train
About him; else, day following day, and night
By night, through years his soul had felt no pain,
No triumph, but had shared the common lull,
Been all it seemed, as blameless, true, and dull.
And yet in one fair woman beauty, youth,
And passion were united, and her love