Or with bowed head climb up the golden stairs.
The glory of their dying is all theirs
Who have found fire only about the stake,—
It is a pity we should try to break
The perfect symmetry of their despairs.
But we who are the children of our birth
Loving the clay we are, and are to be,
Find more sufficient life wherein we spawn,
And eat and drink, mere creatures of the earth,
And so endure with less fragility