For time hath been wasted on the senses, to the hourly diminishing of spirit:
Lean is the soul and pineth, in the midst of abundance for the body:
He forgat the worlds to which he tended, and a creature's true nobility,
Nor wished that hope and wholesome fear should stir him from his hardened satisfaction.
And this is death in life; to be sunk beneath the waters of the Actual,
Without one feebly-struggling sense of an airier spiritual realm:
Affection, fancy, feeling—dead; imagination, conscience, faith,
All wilfully expunged, till they leave the man mere carcase.
See thou livest, whiles thou art: for heart must live, and soul,
But care and sloth and sin and self, combine to kill that life.