We spend our days for things which profit not,
We set our heart on things.
When sense is edged and blood of youth is hot,
And when stiff age like ice about us clings,
We spend our days for that which profits not,
We set our heart on things.
More worthy was the blasphemous disdain
Of all God’s world of sense by stubborn saint,
Ungrateful of the sunlight and the rain,
Untouched by colours bending rainbows paint.