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A SENSITIVE MIND.
39
After a tempest, rib and fret
The broadimbaséd beach, why he
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?
Wherefore his ridges are not curls
And ripples of an inland meer?
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can
Draw down into his vexéd pools
All that blue heaven which hues and paves
The other? I am too forlorn,
Too shaken: my own weakness fools
My judgment, and my spirit whirls,
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.
The broadimbaséd beach, why he
Slumbers not like a mountain tarn?
Wherefore his ridges are not curls
And ripples of an inland meer?
Wherefore he moaneth thus, nor can
Draw down into his vexéd pools
All that blue heaven which hues and paves
The other? I am too forlorn,
Too shaken: my own weakness fools
My judgment, and my spirit whirls,
Moved from beneath with doubt and fear.
"Yet," said I, in my morn of youth,
The unsunned freshness of my strength,
When I went forth in quest of truth,
"It is man's privilege to doubt,
"If so be that from doubt at length,
"Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,
"An image with profulgent brows,
The unsunned freshness of my strength,
When I went forth in quest of truth,
"It is man's privilege to doubt,
"If so be that from doubt at length,
"Truth may stand forth unmoved of change,
"An image with profulgent brows,
