Chapter II

So let me fail: what matter if the wise
And worldly whisper, who so poor as they?
For everywhere alike the common way
Has now become an earthly paradise.
And where you walk the very pavement cries
Of blue-bells, April-chimed, and fawns at play;
And London seems a sylvan holiday
Of flower-hunting bees and butterflies.

So let me fail, for where I could succeed
How mean the quest, a climber gazing down
From the low vantage of some petty hill.
But chance success would be the gambler’s thrill
Who plays with God for worlds, and wins indeed
The whole of Paradise for half-a-crown!