Now in my far enchanted solitude,
My long life moves before me like a dream . . .

A child in Ulva, by the Northern sea,
I hear my father at our evening prayer,
And wild Gael singing of my grandmother.
A factory boy upon the banks of Clyde;
For all the dissonant whirl of enginery,
I seize the food of learning, swiftly glancing
On some dear volume, laid upon a marge
Of the great spinning-jenny, as I pass,
Repassing ever in monotonous toil.
Fired with the splendour of the Lord of Love,
I long to unfurl His standard in the world:
For this I conquer arts laborious
Of serviceable healing; and I grow
Adept in many a helpful handicraft;