The Lord let the house of a brute to the soul of a man,
And the man said ‘Am I your debtor?’
And the Lord—‘Not yet: but make it as clean as you can,
And then I will let you a better.’
I.
If my body come from brutes, my soul uncertain, or a fable,
Why not bask amid the senses while the sun of morning shines,
I, the finer brute rejoicing in my hounds, and in my stable,
Youth and Health, and birth and wealth, and choice of women and of wines?
II.
What hast thou done for me, grim Old Age, save breaking my bones on the rack?
Would I had past in the morning that looks so bright from afar!
