The flocks which bring us joy or pain;
Whose tramplings fill this mortal span—
—Wild vagrant thoughts that bless or ban
The little wayward mind of man—
What hand doth their wild march control?
Heed’st Thou, contriver of the Whole,
Such idle tenants of the soul?
Wild birds which flutter to and fro,
Misled, misguided barques which go
’Cross currents streaked with weal and woe?