To Be Weak Is Miserable, Doing Or

The Work Under Our Labour Grows, Luxurious By Restraint.

So Scented The Grim Feature, And Upturn'd His Nostril Wide Into The Murky Air, Sagacious Of His Quarry From So Far.

O When Meet Now Such Pairs, In Love And Mutual Honour Joined?

My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just, The Perfect Shape.

Is It True, O Christ In Heaven, That The Highest Suffer The Most? That The Strongest Wander Furthest And Most Hopelessly Are Lost? That The Mark Of Rank In Nature Is Capacity For Pain? That The Anguish Of The Singer Makes The Sweetness Of The Strain?