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.