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10
A BOOK OF MYTHS


Were not as things that gods despise;
What was thy pity's recompense?
A silent suffering, and intense;
The rock, the vulture, and the chain,
All that the proud can feel of pain,
The agony they do not show.
The suffocating sense of woe.
Which speaks but in its loneliness.
And then is jealous lest the sky
Should have a listener, nor will sigh
Until its voice is echoless."

"Yet, I am still Prometheus, wiser grown
"By years of solitude,—that holds apart
"The past and future, giving the soul room
"To search into itself,—and long commune
"With this eternal silence;—more a god.
"In my long-suffering and strength to meet
"With equal front the direst shafts of fate.
"Than thou in thy faint-hearted despotism…
"Therefore, great heart, bear up! thou art but type
"Of what all lofty spirits endure that fain
"Would win men back to strength and peace through love
"Each hath his lonely peak, and on each heart
"Envy, or scorn or hatred tears lifelong
"With vulture beak; yet the high soul is left;
"And faith, which is but hope grown wise, and love
"And patience, which at last shall overcome."