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Built upon a most mysterious plan,
There is an inn we call The Heart of Man.
And through the door thereof as through a glass
I saw guests pass,
A troop strange-garmented.
Big-browed Ambition led,
With brightly glistening bays about the head;
Then, with mild eyes aflame,
And lips a-smile, Love came,
Bearing white violets and rosemary;
And next pale Pity went,
Her hollow cheeks besprent
With the pearl-precious tears of sympathy;
Like to a buoyant boy
Leaped Joy,
Whom after Grief
Crept like the palsied leaf
The winds of autumn whirl amid the dust;
Then glooming Hate and Lust;
And, with averted eye,
Hypocrisy.

 

"Strange comradeship!" unto my soul I said,
And my soul answer├Ęd,
"Think what his lot must be
Who entertains this motley company!"