Page:Poems - Tennyson (1843) - Volume 2 of 2.djvu/154

 The still voice laugh'd. "I talk," said he, "Not with thy dreams. Suffice it thee Thy pain is a reality."

"But thou," said I, "hast miss'd thy mark, Who sought'st to wreck my mortal ark, By making all the horizon dark.

"Why not set forth, if I should do This rashness, that which might ensue With this old soul in organs new?

"Whatever crazy sorrow saith, No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly long'd for death.

Tis life, whereof our nerves are scant, Oh life, not death, for which we pant; More life, and fuller, that I want."