Couldst thou, Pausanias, learn
How deep a fault is this;
Couldst thou but once discern
Thou hast no right to bliss,
No title from the gods to welfare and repose,—
Then thou wouldst look less mazed
Whene'er of bliss debarred,
Nor think the gods were crazed
When thy own lot went hard.
But we are all the same,—the fools of our own woes!
For, from the first faint morn
Of life, the thirst for bliss
Deep in man's heart is born;
And, sceptic as he is,
He fails not to judge clear if this be quenched or no.
Nor is that thirst to blame.
Man errs not that he deems
His welfare his true aim:
He errs because he dreams
The world does but exist that welfare to bestow.
We mortals are no kings
For each of whom to sway
A new-made world upsprings,
Meant merely for his play:
No, we are strangers here; the world is from of old.
In vain our pent wills fret,
And would the world subdue.
Limits we did not set
Condition all we do;
Born into life we are, and life must be our mould.
