Man strives with himself tormented.
Born for ever to move, the Dancer
Of dark Creation’s dream, its destined answer,—
Joy were those limbs created to express!
Now like one darkly stumbling, while his brain
Puzzles each motion with too anxious stress,
Under the glory of stars that move unhalting
He burns with the old need onward still to strain,
Mis-timed, way-lost, defaulting.
II. 4