Shall purge thee of thyself, burn out all selfish mire.”
Away he went in anguish; travelled a whole year;
Saw not his friend; so pined with yearning, anxious fear;
Matured his soul with suffering’s searching throes and pains.
Then sought the door from whence he’d been repulsed, again.50
He knocked anew,—his heart with many fears oppressed,
Lest from his lip some word unwelcome drop confessed.
Within, the question’s heard: “Who knocks at my street door?”
He answered: “Thy own second self;—though all too poor.”
The invitation followed: “Let myself walk in.