So in the sinful streets, abstracted and alone, I with my secret self held communing of mine own. - Arthur Hugh Clough

In front the sun climbs slow, how slowly,
But westward, look, the land is bright.

Our ills are worse than at their ease
These blameless happy souls suspect,
They only study the disease,
Alas, who live not to detect.

Come back again, old heart! Ah me!
Methinks in those thy coward fears
There might, perchance, a courage be,
That fails in these the manlier years;
Courage to let the courage sink,
Itself a coward base to think,
Rather than not for heavenly light
Wait on to show the truly right.