Jefferson and washington, and all those famous men That out of obscurity came, and were on enlightenment bent As on some perfect woman's face, and had such holy measures In their drums, out of what dark hole began? Where had all that purposeless glory come? O, man's a thief of glory, and steals it from himself. Past turbulent lands and frenzied watercourse Man finds but broken solitude, finds his own soul hidden there, Gasps at his luck, summons all his wayward heart to swear To keep it sacred; and then, lonely with his own audacity, Perjures himself in the first company he meets. O, man's a thief of glory, and steals it from himself. Caravaggio's painted flank that struck God in a horse Shimmering, floating there, radiant sky made flesh Above the tumbled saint who crawled in dust away And in that abject departure made his prayer. What besides his human hand had put it there? O, man's a thief of glory, and steals it from himself.