SONNETS.
103
II.
Soul, dwelling oft in God's infinitude,
And sometimes seeming no more part of me—
This me, worms' heritage—than that sun can be
Part of the earth he has with warmth imbued,—
Whence earnest thou? whither goest thou? I, subdued
With awe of mine own being—thus sit still,
Dumb, on the summit of this lonely hill,
Whose dry November-grasses dew-bestrewed
Mirror a million suns—That sun, so bright,
Passes, as thou must pass, Soul, into night:
Art thou afraid, who solitary hast trod
A path I know not, from a source to a bourne,
Both which I know not? fear'st thou to return
Alone, even as thou camest, alone, to God?
And sometimes seeming no more part of me—
This me, worms' heritage—than that sun can be
Part of the earth he has with warmth imbued,—
Whence earnest thou? whither goest thou? I, subdued
With awe of mine own being—thus sit still,
Dumb, on the summit of this lonely hill,
Whose dry November-grasses dew-bestrewed
Mirror a million suns—That sun, so bright,
Passes, as thou must pass, Soul, into night:
Art thou afraid, who solitary hast trod
A path I know not, from a source to a bourne,
Both which I know not? fear'st thou to return
Alone, even as thou camest, alone, to God?
