Were not the mountains scaled apierce the sky?
And depths, the hells I dove a furnace brim?
And naught but hands, I'd foot akin to fly,
For flight assured I'd answer beckoned whim?
Were fortunes mine not all that you'd see spent?
Must brawn, my bearing back soon too be broke?
Must heart you drain all but my lone's lament?
Must words you take until I've but silence spoke?
Can duty reconcile these values lost?
Integrity withstand the work I scorned?
When can the favours paid incur a cost?
Is it upon the day that I am mourned?
Unto myself must my efforts giving;
I must, my life, see it started living.