The unattainable ideal, gleams
Through waking dreams.
But I shall sleep, a sleep secure, profound,
Beyond the reach of blame, or plaudits’ sound;
And who stands high, who low, I shall not know:
’Tis better so.
For what the gain of all my toilsome years,
Of all my ceaseless struggles, secret tears?
My best, more brief than frailest summer flower,