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Poem	WHERE'ER he be, on water or on land, Under pale suns or climes that flames enfold; One of Christ's own, or of Cythera's band, Shadowy beggar or Cr?sus rich with gold; Citizen, peasant, student, tramp; whate'er His little brain may be, alive or dead; Man knows the fear of mystery everywhere, And peeps, with trembling glances, overhead. The heaven above? A strangling cavern wall; The lighted ceiling of a music-hall Where every actor treads a bloody soil-- The hermit's hope; the terror of the sot; The sky: the black lid of the mighty pot Where the vast human generations boil!
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