I feel I have not thought,
And think too much I feel.
Thus sadness come from naught,
To wound wounds that shan’t heal.

Wounds of the heart are such.
There is no piercing knife,
There is no killing touch,
But thoughts of shorter life.

These are the thoughts that live,
More thought than felt, ‘tis true.
For how can I forgive,
Myself when such I knew?

Withdraw thyself and think!
Thoughts of a kind most bold,
Thoughts dead upon a blink,
Thoughts too great to behold!

Thus cease to work for pride,
Looking down as you bend,
For glory is a tide,
Followed by discontent.

And laurels don’t belong,
To those who rise on high,
But to those idlers strong,
Who think afore they die.