We are as children, yet have hope to grow,
Since this may be the stature of a man.
III
Strangely his life began,
Rough-cradled in the savage wood.
Haply our foolish softness grieves
O’er much that he found good,
The hut of logs, the bed of leaves.
By the faint candle, or the winter’s fire,
He groped to his desire,