The desert he has made in his own soul.
O where is now the dew-dropt radiance of morning,
That sistered with him leafing tree and rippling stream,
When simple of heart in the sun with a free body
He accepted all the boundaries of his mind?
Full of fears he was then, shadowed with helpless need
To propitiate Powers that threatened each footstep.
Has he escaped from those old terrors, to be prey
Of fears more terrible because less blind?
II. 2