Humble thyself, proud heart; thou, gracious Heaven,
Be merciful!... it is the original flaw, ...
And what are we?... a weak unhappy race,
Born to our sad inheritance of sin
And death!... He smote his forehead as he spake,
And from his head the ashes fell, like snow
Shaken from some dry beech-leaves, when a bird
Lights on the bending spray. A little while
In silence, rather than in thought, he stood
Passive beneath the sorrow: turning then,