Intellect is passion too,
And it knows the joy to view,
But the poor unfortunate
Dares not as the inebriate.

Though I know the fantasy
Of the stage was shaped by me,
Yet it were a coward’s way
On the journey to delay.

Every moment is my prayer
That I may yet further fare,
Till my folly’s governor
Says there is no desert more.

In such frenzy of the soul
Still I do not yield control:
Every madman cannot boast
That to self be is not lost!