Art thou not maddest striving to be sane,
And catching at that Self of yesterday
That, like a leper’s rags, best flung away!
Or if not mad, then dreaming—dreaming?—well—
Dreaming then—Or, if self to self be true,
Not mock’d by that, but as poor souls have been
By those who wrong’d them, to give wrong new relish?
Or have those stars indeed they told me of
As masters of my wretched life of old,
Into some happier constellation roll’d,