By George Sterling

This is that brute which travailed, uncontent
    To bask with fellow creatures in the sun,—
    To filch from earth his sustenance, which done,
He could have ease in some cave's tenement.
Not wholly thus his urgent will was spent,
    For peace within its borders had he none,
    Foresensing on a journey unbegun
The airs of that inscrutable ascent.

With earth who bore him has he made his feud,
    And dreamt of other stars, and sought him wings,
Decreed to an august ingratitude;
        And for his tears the Verities vouchsafe
    That he stand first among created things—
        A seeker of abysses, and their waif!

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