This love, and seek some other land?
And yet the current of his life
Mostlike had flow'd like oil; had been
A monk's, for aught that all men knew.
Mostlike the sad man's only sin,
A cruel one, for thought is strife,
Had been the curse of thought all through.
Mayhap his splendid soul had spurn'd
Insipid, sweet society,
That stinks in nostrils of all men