THE BURIED LIFE
(1852)

Light flows our war of mocking words; and yet,

Behold, with tears mine eyes are wet!
I feel a nameless sadness o'er me roll.
Yes, yes, we know that we can jest,
We know, we know that we can smile! 5
But there's a something in this breast,
To which thy light words bring no rest,
And thy gay smiles no anodyne;
Give me thy hand, and hush awhile,
And turn those limpid eyes on mine,
And let me read there, love! thy inmost
soul.

Alas! is even love too weak

10

But often, in the din of strife,
There rises an unspeakable desire
After the knowledge of our buried life;
A thirst to spend our fire and restless force
In tracking out Our true, original

course;

A longing to inquire

50

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,

55

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,

60

Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through

our breast,