V

How often sit I, poring o’er My strange distorted youth, Seeking in vain, in all my store, One feeling based on truth; Amid the maze of petty life A clue whereby to move, A spot whereon in toil and strife To dare to rest and love. So constant as my heart would be, So fickle as it must, ’Twere well for others as for me ’Twere dry as summer dust. Excitements come, and act and speech Flow freely forth;—but no, Nor they, nor ought beside can reach The buried world below.

1841