He, who grown aged in this world of woe,

In deeds, not years, ⁸ piercing the depths of life,

So that no wonder waits him—nor below

Can Love or Sorrow, Fame, Ambition, Strife,

Cut to his heart again with the keen knife

Of silent, sharp endurance—he can tell

Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife

With airy images, and shapes which dwell

Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul's haunted cell. ⁹