To live within a cave is not so good.
All sights and sounds of men are thereby barred
Save at one port that opens to the light.
Life in the round cannot be understood
By any troglodyte.
If one should pass, a walker on the shore,
He is a shadowed silhouette, no more;
The outline of a being cut in card.
What though security is at one’s back
And shelter overhead,
This is existence that is three parts dead.
The sun for such a man makes little track,
His day is but a lessening of night.
Yet many live like this, though they are loud
In their denial, heeding not the shade
Upon them laid;
Moving anonymously in a crowd,
Imprisoned in a self more hard than stone.