When I attain to utter forth in verse Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly Along my pulses, yearning to be free And something farther, fuller, higher, rehearse,To the individual, true, and the universe, In consummation of right harmony! But, like a dreary wind against a tree, We are blown against for ever by the curse Which breathes through nature. Oh, the world is weak—The effluence of each is false to all; And what we best conceive, we fail to speak. Wait, soul, until thine ashen garments fall! And then resume thy broken strains, and seek Fit peroration, without let or thrall.
