V.

He, who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years,[280] piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him--nor below Can Love or Sorrow, Fame, Ambition, Strife, Cut to his heart again with the keen knife Of silent, sharp endurance--he can tell Why Thought seeks refuge in lone caves, yet rife With airy images, and shapes which dwell Still unimpaired, though old, in the Soul's haunted cell.[gk]