I had a friend who battled for the truth With stubborn heart and obstinate despair, Till all his beauty left him, and his youth, And there were few to love him anywhere.
Then would he wander out among the graves, And think of dead men lying in a row;
Or, standing on a cliff observe the waves, And hear the wistful sound of winds below;
And yet they told him nothing. So he sought The twittering forest at the break of day, Or on fantastic mountains shaped a thought As lofty and impenitent as they.
And next he went in wonder through a town Slowly by day and hurriedly by night, And watched men walking up the street and down With timorous and terrible delight.
Weary, he drew man's wisdom from a book, And pondered on the high words spoken of old, Pacing a lamplit room: but soon forsook The golden sentences that left him cold.
After, a woman found him, and his head Lay on her breast, till he forgot his pain In gentle kisses on a midnight bed, And welcomed royal-winged joy again.
When love became a loathing, as it must, He knew not where to turn; and he was wise, Being now old, to sink among the dust, And rest his rebel heart, and close his eyes.
