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Will

       
     
          I.

    O well for him whose will is strong!
    He suffers, but he will not suffer long;
    He suffers, but he cannot suffer wrong:
    For him nor moves the loud world’s random mock,
    Nor all Calamity’s hugest waves confound,
    Who seems a promontory of rock,
    That, compass’d round with turbulent sound,
    In middle ocean meets the surging shock,
    Tempest-buffeted, citadel-crown’d.

     

          II.

    But ill for him who, bettering not with time,
    Corrupts the strength of heaven-descended Will,
    And ever weaker grows thro’ acted crime,
    Or seeming-genial venial fault,
    Recurring and suggesting still!
    He seems as one whose footsteps halt,
    Toiling in immeasurable sand,
    And o’er a weary sultry land,
    Far beneath a blazing vault,
    Sown in a wrinkle of the monstrous hill,
    The city sparkles like a grain of salt.
     


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