In Duty Bound
In duty bound, a life hemmed in
Whichever way the spirit turns to look;
No chance of breaking out, except by sin;
Not even room to shirk—
Simply to live, and work.
An obligation pre-imposed, unsought,
Yet binding with the force of natural law;
The pressure of antagonistic thought;
Aching within, each hour,
A sense of wasting power.
A house with roof so darkly low
The heavy rafters shut the sunlight out;
One cannot stand erect without a blow;
Until the soul inside
Cries for a grave—more wide.
A consciousness that if this thing endure,
The common joys of life will dull the pain;
The high ideals of the grand and pure
Die, as of course they must,
Of long disuse and rust.
That is the worst. It takes supernal strength
To hold the attitude that brings the pain;
And they are few indeed but stoop at length
To something less than best,
To find, in stooping, rest.