It is the veriest madness man
In maddest mood can frame,
To feed the earth with human gore,
And then to call it fame.
I have been wrong'd; but were my wrong
The deadliest wrong ere done,
I would not slay my enemy,
But bid him still live on:—
And I should deem my vengeance more
Than the death-wound in strife—
What ills can death inflict like those
Heap'd on each hour of life?
Neither shall crowded city be
A home or haunt of mine,
Where heart and head and hand but work
As the red gold may shine:—
Where the lip learns vague courtesy,
And falsehood sets the cheek,
And blush and sigh, and laugh and tear,
But their taught lessons speak:—
Where all is false and base and mean,
And man toils through his part
Less by the sweat wrung from his brow
Than the blood wrung from his heart.—
But in yon desert, wild and wide,
I'll make myself a home,
There with my white steed, comrade mine,
And with the wind I'll roam.
On like that wind, my snowy barb!
Enough that we are friends;
No other dwelling will we seek
Than where thy fleet course ends.
Alone, alone—we'll dwell alone,
In a world so cold and rude.
Where may the wearied rest in peace?—
Only in solitude.IOLE.
