Considerabam Ad Dexteram, Et Videbam; Et Non Erat Qui Cognosceret Me . . . Non Est Qui Requirat Animam Meam. - Ps. Cxli. When The Clouds' Swoln Bosoms Echo Back The Shouts Of The Many And Strong That Things Are All As They Best May Be, Save A Few To Be Right Ere Long, And My Eyes Have Not The Vision In Them To Discern What To These Is So Clear, The Blot Seems Straightway In Me Alone; One Better He Were Not Here. The Stout Upstanders Say, All'S Well With Us: Ruers Have Nought To Rue! And What The Potent Say So Oft, Can It Fail To Be Somewhat True? Breezily Go They, Breezily Come; Their Dust Smokes Around Their Career, Till I Think I Am One Horn Out Of Due Time, Who Has No Calling Here. Their Dawns Bring Lusty Joys, It Seems; Their Eves Exultance Sweet; Our Times Are Blessed Times, They Cry: Life Shapes It As Is Most Meet, And Nothing Is Much The Matter; There Are Many Smiles To A Tear; Then What Is The Matter Is I, I Say. Why Should Such An One Be Here? . . . Let Him To Whose Ears The Low-Voiced Best Seems Stilled By The Clash Of The First, Who Holds That If Way To The Better There Be, It Exacts A Full Look At The Worst, Who Feels That Delight Is A Delicate Growth Cramped By Crookedness, Custom, And Fear, Get Him Up And Be Gone As One Shaped Awry; He Disturbs The Order Here. 1895-96.