But, perhaps, it’s the only way, though it’s so bad;
In that case we’ll bow down our heads,—as we ought.
IX.
But the worst of me is, that when I bow my head,
I perceive a thought wriggling away in the dust,
And I follow its tracks, quite forgetful, instead
Of humble acceptance: for, question I must!
Here’s a creature made carefully—carefully made!
Put together with craft, and then stamped on, and why?
The answer seems nowhere: it’s discord that’s played.