Confession

THIS is the man you love. . . . No stainless knight
Unblemished by the world, no paragon
Moved by pure impulse only, no eremite
Lost in lone penances from dawn to dawn;
But such a seeker after truth as scorns
The cant of custom, such an erring heart
As drums to beauty’s challenge — ay, and mourns
For beauty vanquished: one who bears his part
In the indifferent tumult of the hour
Indifferently well; best, one who knows
Whither, when adverse currents sap his power,
He may creep homeward to assured repose —
Even to your feet, that, you may bend above
His humbled head. . . . This is the man you love.