Could have such choral gold poured down from heaven
When he was young. But there he shook his head
In hopeless pity—not for the doomed, I saw,
But rather for the sanguine ordinary
That sees no devil and so controls itself,
Having nothing in especial to control.
“Hewers of wood,” I said, “and drawers of water
Will always in their innocence be insisting
That your enamel of unrighteousness
Is too thick to be real.” In his changed eyes,
Where the old fire was gone, there was almost
The coming of a smile: “How do you know?”
He answered, asking. “What have you done to know?
[ 25 ]
