A New Pilgrimage: Sonnet XXXIII
So I, I am ashamed of my old life,
Here in this saintly presence of days gone,
Ashamed of my weak heart's unmeaning strife,
Its loves, its lusts, its battles lost and won,
And its long search of pleasure 'neath the sun,
And its scant courage to endure the knife,
And its vain longing for good deeds undone,
Ending in bitter words with railing rife.
I am unworthy, yet am comforted,
As one who driving o'er long trackless roads
Of brake and rock and briar with footsore steed
And springless chariot, searching for vain gods,
Finds the high--road before him, where at ease
The old world plods the rut of centuries.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
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