Ii

Seeing how pent we are Within our human ways, That save in ceaseless war We cannot spend our days,

In struggle each with each To get a breathing space, While Heaven, out of reach, Looks on with scornful face;

I wonder, for man’s sake, Cannot that mind of his Which made the engine make A better state than this?

Here sitting in my place There comes to me unsought The beautiful sad face Of this undying thought.

And with it as in scorn The present state descried Of monsters heaven-born And angels crucify’d,

Where, scourged to unnatural toil, In palsy’d posture bent, Man creeping near the soil Forgets the firmament.