by Elizabeth Barrett Browning
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 wind-exposed, distorted tree,
We are blown against for ever by the curse
Which breathes through nature. O, the world is weak --
The effluenee 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.
Source:The Poems Of Elizabeth Barrett Browning, Volume 1
C. S. Francis & Co., 262 Broadway, New York
Crosby & Nichols, Boston