And here sat lapped in rest with folded feet,
A tranquil traitor, careless of his kind.
Go—get you gone, and leave your dreams behind!
Nay! What have you done yet to earn the rest
And peace wherein I dwell? Have your hands blest
Dull clay, or caused the mouldering dead to wake?
Have you so starved, and striven, and toiled to make
Your vision true: and have you failed and tried,
And failed and found—only to be denied
And stand at last a mark for all men’s scorn?