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"Cogitavi vias meas"     A cry from the green-grained sticks of the fire     Made me gaze where it seemed to be:     'Twas my own voice talking therefrom to me     On how I had walked when my sun was higher -     My heart in its arrogancy.     "You held not to whatsoever was true,"     Said my own voice talking to me:     "Whatsoever was just you were slack to see;     Kept not things lovely and pure in view,"     Said my own voice talking to me.     "You slighted her that endureth all,"     Said my own voice talking to me;     "Vaunteth not, trusteth hopefully;     That suffereth long and is kind withal,"     Said my own voice talking to me.     "You taught not that which you set about,"     Said my own voice talking to me;     "That the greatest of things is Charity. . . "     - And the sticks burnt low, and the fire went out,     And my voice ceased talking to me.