First Purposeless Strivings of the Imagination
A SICKNESS at the heart that ever pines
For solitude, and baffled in the prayer,
Swells sometimes to a passion like despair!
Jealous of eyes — suspecting all designs,
And trembling for a secret which the heart
Grasps not itself; — still searching, as a life
The soothing of another, yet at strife
With him who first assumes the soother's part,
Nor trusting till too late! — A resolute will
To pine, and be alone, and desolate still;
By day in wood and wild, with vexing thought,
Removed from human converse; and by night
Striving in dreams, and, at the morning's light,
Looking, as with an angel we had fought.
For solitude, and baffled in the prayer,
Swells sometimes to a passion like despair!
Jealous of eyes — suspecting all designs,
And trembling for a secret which the heart
Grasps not itself; — still searching, as a life
The soothing of another, yet at strife
With him who first assumes the soother's part,
Nor trusting till too late! — A resolute will
To pine, and be alone, and desolate still;
By day in wood and wild, with vexing thought,
Removed from human converse; and by night
Striving in dreams, and, at the morning's light,
Looking, as with an angel we had fought.
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