There’s nothing here to keep me from my own.—

The confident roads that at their ease beguile me

With the all-promising lands, the great unknown,

Can with their gilded dust blind me, defile me.

It’s so. Yet never did their lies deceive me,

And when, lost in the dreaming route, I say

I seek my soul, my soul does not believe me,

But from these transports turns displeased away.

But then, but then, why should I so behave me,

Willingly duped ten, twenty times an hour,

But that even at my dearest cost I’d save me

From the true knowledge and the real power?

In which through all time’s changeable seasons grown,

I might have stayed, unshaken, with my own.