I. <br />Those whom nor power, nor lying faith, nor toil, <br />Nor custom, queen of many slaves, makes blind, <br />Have ever grieved that man should be the spoil <br />Of his own weakness, and with earnest mind <br />Fed hopes of its redemption; these recur <br />Chastened by deathful victory now, and find <br />Foundations in this foulest age, and stir <br />Me whom they cheer to be their minister. <br /> <br />II. <br />Dark is the realm of grief: but human things <br />Those may not know who cannot weep for them. <br />... <br /> <br />III. <br />Once more descend <br />The shadows of my soul upon mankind, <br />For to those hearts with which they never blend, <br />Thoughts are but shadows which the flashing mind <br />From the swift clouds which track its flight of fire, <br />Casts on the gloomy world it leaves behind. <br />...<br /><br />Percy Bysshe Shelley<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/fragments-supposed-to-be-parts-of-otho/
