av Erling Røhmer.
To what does Man’s frail mind lend frantic grip –
When in the tempest of his conscience – Doubt,
In green and yellow frock lets subtly slip
A seed of hesitation fit to sprout?
Whence comes the force to oust this vagabond,
As even Reason nods in faint accord –
For what – with what – and on what grounds respond,
When it’s one’s very Will that has been gored?
Does such distress not trouble men of gold –
Are they immune – compos’d of better clay,
Did they themselves design their blameless molds?
Or, if I asked, would they not simply say:
‘Tis not self-doubt that conquers man’s resolve, But wanting pluck, he will in doubt dissolve.