The inner man, ’tis, sounds the depths of the Unseen.
If all our life be spent in chase of mundane things,
Our paths must lead o’er wastes, o’er hills, o’er ocean springs.
The Fount of Life,[109] where shall we find in such a course?
Death’s billows how avoid, and how escape remorse?
The desert’s moving sandhills are our schemes and plans.
Life-rills are abnegation, self-denial, man’s.”
Him answered his disciples: “Master, grieve us not.
Fresh sorrow, through pretences, add not to our lot.265
Such heavy burden to endure we’ve not the power.