Though my torn hands are clamped to unfamiliar steel
And fumble with the task of my lowly time,
Though the talk of my companions
Chatters and stutters like a sparking wheel,
Though our light pitches into grey, and all natural things with it,
And I, high above my natural home (and far beyond it),
Still I catch the secret flight of wing, and thank my cursed position;
Still I pass the common roof—in mind, alone—under which my true kinsmen lie;
Where they themselves, pre-occupied by thought, verse, line
Do prod the flames of solitude—
And like myself, forget all time.