Esther, XLIII

How shall I tell my fall ? The life of man
Is but a tale of tumbles, this way thrown
At his beginning by mere haste of plan
In the first gaping ditch with flowers o'ergrown ;
Anon more cautious for his wounded knees,
Yet falling still through much expectancy ;
And so to age, the goal of his heart's ease,
Stumbling in blindness on he knows not why.
How shall I tell it ? As the poets tell
Who wrap love in a garment of vain light ?
Or plainly naked, the poor child of Hell
And laughter that it is and starless night ?
I like the truth best. Yet this love, sad thing,
Mired and defiled, I saw it once a king.