AT length I sickened, standing in the sun
Truthful and for the Truth, whose only fees
Are madness and sharp death. I bowed my knees
And said: “As long as the world's years have run,
These accents have been said and these things done:
That which is mine abasement is their ease:
They say, ‘Go to—all this is as we please:
Shall we, being many, step aside for one?’
“And thus it is that though the air be new,
And my brow finds the coolness it hath sought
Through the slow—stricken night,—the daily curse
Weighs on my soul of what I waken to:
For though I loathe the price, this must be bought.”
… Thou fool! Would'st buy from man what God confers?