Some moralist or mythological poet Compares
the solitary soul to a swan; I
am satisfied with that, Satisfied
if a troubled mirror show it, Before
that brief gleam of its life be gone, An
image of its state; The
wings half spread for flight, The
breast thrust out in pride Whether
to play, or to ride Those
winds that clamour of approaching night. A
man in his own secret meditation Is
lost amid the labyrinth that he has made In
art or politics; Some
Platonist affirms that in the station Where
we should cast off body and trade The
ancient habit sticks, And
that if our works could But
vanish with our breath That
were a lucky death, For
triumph can but mar our solitude. The
swan has leaped into the desolate heaven: That
image can bring wildness, bring a rage To
end all things, to end What
my laborious life imagined, even The
half-imagined, the half-written page; O
but we dreamed to mend Whatever
mischief seemed To
afflict mankind, but now That
winds of winter blow Learn that we were crack-pated when we dreamed. |
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