The Journeyman

Not baser than his own homekeeping kind
Whose journeyman he is --
Blind sons and breastless daughters of the blind
Whose darkness pardons his, --
About the world, while all the world approves,
The pimp of Fashion steals,
With all the angels mourning their dead loves
Behind his bloody heels.
It my be late when Nature cries Enough!
As one day cry she will,
And man may have the wit to put her off
With shifts a season still;
But man may find the pinch importunate
And fall to blaming men --
Blind sires and breastless mothers of his fate,
It may be late and may be very late,
Too late for blaming then.