"When I consider how my light is spent Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide, And that one talent which is death to hide, Lodged with me useless, though my soul more bent To serve therewith my Maker, and present My true account, lest He, returning, chide; 'Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?' I fondly ask: but Patience, to prevent That murmur, soon replies: 'God doth not need Either man's work, or His own gifts; who best Bear His mild yoke, they serve Him best; His state Is kingly: thousands at His bidding speed, And post o'er land and ocean without rest; They also serve who only stand and wait.'" And each time that I read that poem I fell into a strange brooding mood. A mood from which later on sprang my greatest defeat and my greatest conquest. By-and-by I bought the poems of Lord Byron, Keats, and also of Longfellow, and not a single day passed without my being able to do a little reading. That does not mean, however, that I read all the poems contained in a book. Far from it. When I bought a new book I used to turn over the leaves until I found a poem which I liked very much, and that one poem I kept reading over and over again. It happened also that I used to read a poem on account of one passage only. There is, for example, one poem by Lord Byron, commencing thus: "Ah! Love was never yet without The pang, the agony, the doubt." And a few lines further: "That love has arrows, well I knew; Alas, I find them poisoned too." For the sake of these last lines, I wandered through the whole poem again and again although I did not care for the rest. My favourite poem by Keats was: "I had a dove, and the sweet dove died, And I have thought it died of grieving. Oh, what could it grieve for? Its feet were tied With a silken thread of my own hands' weaving. Sweet little red feet! why should you die? Why should you leave me, sweet bird! why? You lived alone in the forest-tree; Why, pretty thing, would you not live with me? I kissed you oft and gave you white peas; Why not live sweetly as in the green trees?"