III

Who calleth thee, Heart? World's Strife,

      With a golden heft to his knife:

      World's Mirth, with a finger fine

      That draws on a board in wine,

            Her blood-red plans of life:

      World's Gain, with a brow knit down:

      World's Fame, with a laurel crown,

Which rustles most as the leaves turn brown—

                        Heart, wilt thou go?

                              —"No, no!

                  Calm hearts are wiser so."