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From their folded mates they wander far, Their ways seem harsh and wild: They follow the beck of a baleful star, Their paths are dream-beguiled.

Meanwhile "Black sheep, black sheep!" we cry, Safe in the inner fold; And maybe they hear, and wonder why, And marvel, out in the cold.

We are the doubles of those whose way Was festal with fruits and flowers; Body and brain we were sound as they, But the prizes were not ours.

How often in the summer-tide, His graver business set aside, His stripling Will, the thoughtful-eyed As to the pipe of Pan, Stepped blithesomely with lover's pride Across the fields to Anne.

Blessed is the wooing That is not long a-doing.