Their breath is agitation, and their life

A storm whereon they ride, to sink at last,

And yet so nursed and bigoted to strife,

That should their days, surviving perils past,

Melt to calm twilight, they feel overcast[ic]

With sorrow and supineness, and so die;

Even as a flame unfed, which runs to waste

With its own flickering, or a sword laid by,

Which eats into itself, and rusts ingloriously.