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But so many books thou readest,

Houses, with long white sweep,
But so many schemes thou breedest, Girdled the glistening bay;
But so many wishes feedest,

Behind, through the soft air,
That thy poor head almost turns. The blue haze-cradled mountains spread

away, And (the world's so madly jangled,

The night was far more fair Human things so fast entangled)

But the same restless pacings to and fro, Nature's wish must now be strangled And the same vainly throbbing heart was For that best which she discerns.

there.

And the same bright, calm moon. So it must be! yet, while leading

And the calm moonlight seems to say: A strained life, while overfeeding,

Hast thou then still the old unquiet breast, Like the rest, his wit with reading, 15 Which neither deadens into rest, No small profit that man earns,

Nor ever feels the fiery glow

That whirls the spirit from itself away, 30 Who through all he meets can steer him, But fluctuates to and fro, Can reject what cannot clear him,

Never by passion quite possessed Cling to what can truly cheer him; And never quite benumbed by the world's Who each day more surely learns

sway?

And I, I know not if to pray That an impulse, from the distance Still to be what I am, or yield and be 35 Of his deepest, best existence,

Like all the other men I see. To the words, “Hope, Light, Persistence,"

For most men in a brazen prison live, Strongly sets and truly burns.

Where, in the sun's hot eye,
With heads bent o'er their toil, they

languidly
A SUMMER NIGHT

Their lives to some unmeaning taskwork (1852)

give, In the deserted, moon-blanched street,

Dreaming of nought beyond their prison How lonely rings the echo of my feet!

wall. Those windows, which I gaze at, frown,

And as, year after year, Silent and white, unopening down,

Fresh products of their barren labor fall Repellant as the world; — but see,

From their tired hands, and rest A break between the housetops shows

Never yet comes more near, The moon! and, lost behind her, fading

Gloom settles slowly down over their

breast; dim Into the dewy dark obscurity

And while they try to stem Down at the far horizon's rim,

The waves of mournful thought by which Doth a whole tract of heaven disclose!

they are pressed, 10

Death in their prison reaches them,

Unfreed, having seen nothing, still unAnd to my mind the thought

blest.
Is on a sudden brought
Of a past night, and a far different scene. And the rest, a few,
Headlands stood out into the moonlit deep | Escape their prison and depart
As clearly as at noon;

15 On the wide ocean of life anew. The spring-tide's brimming flow

There the freed prisoner, where'er his Heaved dazzlingly between;

heart

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see

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waves

WRITTEN IN KENSINGTON GARDENS

65

Listeth, will sail;

55 A world above man's head, to let him Nor doth he know how there prevail, Despotic on that sea,

How boundless might his soul's horizons Trade-winds which cross it from eternity. be, Awhile he holds some false way, unde How vast, yet of what clear transparency! barred

How it were good to abide there, and By thwarting signs, and braves

breathe free;

90 The freshening wind and blackening How fair a lot to fill

Is left to each man still! And then the tempest strikes him; and

between
The lightning-bursts is seen

LINES
Only a driving wreck,
And the pale master on his spar-strewn
deck

(1852) With anguished face and Aying hair

In this lone, open glade I lie, Grasping the rudder hard,

Screened by deep boughs on either hand; Still bent to make some port he knows

And at its end, to stay the eye, not where,

Those black-crowned, red-boled pine-trees Still standing for some false, impossible

stand! shore. And sterner comes the roar

70 Birds here make song, each bird has his, 5 Of sea and wind, and through the deep Across the girdling city's hum. ening gloom

How green under the boughs it is! Fainter and fainter wreck and helmsman How thick the tremulous sheep-cries loom,

come! And he too disappears, and comes

Sometimes a child will cross the glade
To take his nurse his broken toy;

Sometimes a thrush Ait overhead
Is there no life, but these alone?
Madman or slave, must man be one?

Deep in her unknown day's employ.
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Here at my feet what wonders pass, Plainness and clearness without shadow of

What endless, active life is here! stain!

What blowing daisies, fragrant grass! 15 Clearness divine!

An air-stirred forest, fresh and clear. Ye heavens, whose pure dark regions have no sign

Scarce fresher is the mountain-sod Of languor, though so calm, and, though

Where the tired angler lies, stretched out, so great,

And, eased of basket and of rod, Are yet untroubled and unpassionate;

Counts his day's spoil, the spotted trout. 20 Who, though so noble, share in the world's

In the huge world, which roars hard by, toil,

Be others happy if they can! And, though so tasked, keep free from

But in my helpless cradle I dust and soil !

Was breathed on by the rural Pan.
I will not say that your mild deeps retain
A tinge, it may be, of their silent pain I, on men's impious uproar hurled,
Who have longed deeply once, and longed | Think often, as I hear them rave,
in vain

That peace has left the upper world
But I will rather say that you remain And now keeps only in the grave.

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