The soul of man is larger than the sky

Rising now, anon descending, Swift and bright as shooting stars, Thus we travel glad and free.

She is not fair to outward view As many maidens be; Her loveliness I never knew Until she smiled on me: Oh! then I saw her eye was bright, A well of love, a spring of light.

Great poet, 'twas thy art To know thyself, and in thyself to be Whate'er Love, Hate, Ambition, Destiny, Or the firm, fatal purpose of the Heart Can make of Man. Yet thou wert still the same, Serene of thought, unhurt by thy own flame.

Her very frowns are fairer far Than smiles of other maidens are.

On this hapless earth There ’s small sincerity of mirth, And laughter oft is but an art To drown the outcry of the heart.

Sweet were change, If but a change of tortures! But to grow A motionless rock, fast as my strong prison, Age after age, till circling suns outnumber The sands upon the tide-worn beach! No hope, Or that sad mockery of hope that fools