Chapter 17 No.17

"Yea, my King,"

I began-"thou dost well in rejecting mere comforts that spring

From the mere mortal life held in common by man and by brute:150

In our flesh grows the branch of this life, in our soul it bears fruit.

Thou hast marked the slow rise of the tree-how its stem trembled first

Till it passed the kid's lip, the stag's antler;