And his 'I' was not lost in that process of consoling
Or in the fullness he found in commitment to duty,
For decency prevailed over self-interest's cajoling
And the conventional self over mercenary incivility.
Lest Freedom's daughters at Homer should rail
If wronged Eumaeus too lightly consented
To custom's lordly will, I shall detail
The incidental things that prove him contented:
The plan for farm buildings, deep in his mind,
The courtyard wall, a labour of love -
To contrast with our duties minutely defined,
Not risking intimacy and the spontaneity thereof.
The despair-witted workers, who never uncoil,
Are freemen today! Our advantage is gained
By trying not to lose ourselves in our toil
And fool our hearts that no choices remained:
A too-eager role-play is the doom of self-consciousness
And the vengeance of self-interest is hard by the door
To accuse the suppliants of work's meaningfulness
Of surrendering their freedom to work for more!
High flyer, upborne on the wings of plaudits,
Toil addicted, claiming the right to success,
Icarus plummets from the heat of his audits:
The misuse of choice in the quest for stress!
Can the meaning of life to his mill be grist
That he uses his vaunted freedom to smother?
Does he know who he is, as the swineherd wist
In virtue of his odyssey and his relation to another?