CVIII.
 

What profit lies in barren faith,
    And vacant yearning, tho’ with might
    To scale the heaven’s highest height,
Or dive below the wells of Death?

What find I in the highest place,
    But mine own phantom chanting hymns?
    And on the depths of death there swims
The reflex of a human face.

I'll rather take what fruit may be
    Of sorrow under human skies:
    ’Tis held that sorrow makes us wise,
Whatever wisdom sleep with thee.