That blunts thy sense, and dulls thy taste; that deafs thine ears, and blinds thine eyes; Creates the thing that never was, the Thing that ever is defies.

The finite Atom infinite that forms thy circle’s centre-dot, So full-sufficient for itself, for other selves existing not,

Finds the world mighty as ’tis small; yet must be fought the unequal fray; A myriad giants here; and there a pinch of dust, a clod of clay.

Yes! maugre all thy dreams of peace still must the fight unfair be fought; Where thou mayst learn the noblest lore, to know that all we know is nought.

True to thy Nature, to Thy self, Fame and Disfame nor hope nor fear: Enough to thee the small still voice aye thund’ring in thine inner ear.