How Can I Think, Or Edge My Thoughts To Action, When The Miserly Press Of Each Day'S Need Aches To A Narrowness Of Spilled Distraction My Soul Appalled At The World'S Work'S Time-Greed? How Can I Pause My Thoughts Upon The Task My Soul Was Born To Think That It Must Do When Every Moment Has A Thought To Ask To Fit The Immediate Craving Of Its Cue? The Coin I'd Heap For Marrying My Muse And Build Our Home I'Th' Greater Time-To-Be Becomes Dissolved By Needs Of Each Day'S Use And I Feel Beggared Of Infinity, Like A True-Christian Sinner, Each Day Flesh-Driven By His Own Act To Forfeit His Wished Heaven.