Yield not, to scorn, or sorrow, living men 605
Are ofttimes to their fellow-men no more
Than to the forest hermit are the leaves
That hang aloft in myriads—nay, far less,
For they protect his walk from sun and shower,
Swell his devotion with their voice in storms, 610
And whisper while the stars twinkle among them
His lullaby. From crowded streets remote,
Far from the living and dead wilderness
Of the thronged world, Society is here[372]