I

I call no curse on fate, I call no curse on thee, O barren bitter state Of exile, such to me.

I would but only this: I wish that I could go And see the thing that is, And, seeing, better know;

And take things in my hand And find if false or fit; But in this far-off land What hope is there of it?

There is no hope of it; I see but sad despair, Unless it may be writ God cureth care by care.

So one in prison thrust; He ages span by span, But in the prison dust Becomes a better man.

So one is blind from birth; All day he sitteth still; He cannot see the earth, But heaven when he will.