'O well is thee, though the weird be strange
⁠That bids thee flit and flee;
For hope is child of the womb of change,
⁠And hope keeps watch with thee.

'When the years are gone, and the time is come,
⁠God's grace may give thee grace;
And thy soul may sing, though thy soul were dumb,
⁠And shine before God's face.

'But I, that lighten and revel and roll
⁠With the foam of the plunging sea,
No sign is mine of a breathing soul
⁠That God should pity me.

'Nor death, nor heaven, nor hell, nor birth
⁠Hath part in me nor mine:
Strong lords are these of the living earth
⁠And loveless lords of thine.