FREE BOOKS

Author's List




PREV.   NEXT  
|<   138   139   140   141   142   143   144   145   146   147   148   149   150   151   152   153   154   155   156   157   158   159   160   161   162  
163   164   165   166   167   168   169   170   171   172   173   174   175   176   177   178   179   180   181   182   183   184   185   186   187   >>   >|  
t to spend our fire and restless force In tracking out our true, original course; A longing to inquire Into the mystery of this heart which beats So wild, so deep in us--to know Whence our lives come and where they go. And many a man in his own breast then delves, But deep enough, alas! none ever mines. And we have been on many thousand lines, And we have shown, on each, spirit and power; But hardly have we, for one little hour, Been on our own line, have we been ourselves-- Hardly had skill to utter one of all The nameless feelings that course through our breast, But they course on for ever unexpress'd. And long we try in vain to speak and act Our hidden self, and what we say and do Is eloquent, is well--but 'tis not true! And then we will no more be rack'd With inward striving, and demand Of all the thousand nothings of the hour Their stupefying power; Ah yes, and they benumb us at our call! Yet still, from time to time, vague and forlorn, From the soul's subterranean depth upborne As from an infinitely distant land, Come airs, and floating echoes, and convey A melancholy into all our day. Only--but this is rare-- When a beloved hand is laid in ours, When, jaded with the rush and glare Of the interminable hours, Our eyes can in another's eyes read clear, When our world-deafen'd ear Is by the tones of a loved voice caress'd-- A bolt is shot back somewhere in our breast, And a lost pulse of feeling stirs again. The eye sinks inward, and the heart lies plain, And what we mean, we say, and what we would, we know. A man becomes aware of his life's flow, And hears its winding murmur; and he sees The meadows where it glides, the sun, the breeze. And there arrives a lull in the hot race Wherein he doth for ever chase That flying and elusive shadow, rest. An air of coolness plays upon his face, And an unwonted calm pervades his breast. And then he thinks he knows The hills where his life rose, And the sea where it goes. LINES WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS In this lone, open glade I lie, Screen'd by deep boughs on either hand; And at it
PREV.   NEXT  
|<   138   139   140   141   142   143   144   145   146   147   148   149   150   151   152   153   154   155   156   157   158   159   160   161   162  
163   164   165   166   167   168   169   170   171   172   173   174   175   176   177   178   179   180   181   182   183   184   185   186   187   >>   >|  



Top keywords:

breast

 

thousand

 
feeling
 

interminable

 

beloved

 

caress

 

deafen

 

Wherein

 

thinks

 
pervades

unwonted

 
WRITTEN
 
Screen
 
boughs
 
KENSINGTON
 

GARDENS

 

coolness

 

glides

 

breeze

 

arrives


meadows

 

winding

 

murmur

 

shadow

 

elusive

 

flying

 

spirit

 

Hardly

 
unexpress
 

feelings


nameless

 

original

 

longing

 

inquire

 
tracking
 
restless
 

mystery

 
delves
 
Whence
 

subterranean


upborne
 
forlorn
 

infinitely

 

distant

 

melancholy

 

convey

 

echoes

 

floating

 

benumb

 

eloquent