A New Pilgrimage, XXXIII

So I, I am ashamed of my old life,
Here in this saintly presence of days gone,
Ashamed of my weak heart's unmeaning strife,
Its loves, its lusts, its battles lost and won,
And its long search of pleasure 'neath the sun,
And its scant courage to endure the knife,
And its vain longing for good deeds undone,
Ending in bitter words with railing riff.
I am unworthy, yet am comforted,
As one who driving o'er long trackless roads
Of brake and rock and briar with footso;
Ami springless chariot, searching for vain gods,
Finds the high-road Ivfmv him, where at
Tlif old world plods the rut of OflBfa