If I have faltered more or less
In my great task of happiness;
If I have moved among my race And shown no glorious morning face; If beams from happy human eyes Have moved me not; if morning skies, Books, and my food, and summer rain Knocked on my sullen heart in vain: -- Lord, thy most pointed pleasure take And stab my spirit broad awake; Or, Lord, if too obdurate I, Choose thou, before that spirit die A piercing pain, a killing sin, And to my dead heart run them in.
 
By Robert Louis Stevenson.