II 
 
Ah ! there be two sides to all shapes of truth ! 
I might indeed go back to bitter toil, 
Prune the mind’s vine, and gather in the spoil 
Rough-conquered from books, men, fields, without ruth 
Pillaging Nature, pawning strength and youth 
For some strange guerdon (or its counterfoil) 
Gainless or not-to-be-gained, priestly or royal, 
Profane, canaille—I know not, in good sooth ! 
 
I might do this :  or else I might repose 
Wrapped in the urned leaves of my love’s blown rose, 
Seek her in spirit, and commune, and wait 
Her freedom and the rapture to enclose 
In my own house her beauty intimate. 
I am a fool, tossing a coin with Fate. 
 
93