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Thought is an unseen net wherein our mind Is taken and vainly struggles to be free: Words, that should loose our spirit, do but bind New fetters on our hoped-for liberty: And action bears us onward like a stream Past fabulous shores, scarce seen in our swift course; Glorious—and yet its headlong currents seem But backwaters of some diviner force.

There are slow curves, more subtle far than thought, That stoop to carry the grace of a girl's breast; And hanging flowers, so exquisitely wrought In airy metal, that they seem possessed Of souls; and there are distant hills that lift The shoulder of a god towards the light; And arrowy trees, sudden and sharp and swift, Piercing the spirit deeply with delight.

Would I might make these miracles my own! Like a pure angel, thinking colour and form; Hardening to rage in a flame of chiselled stone; Spilling my love like sunlight, golden and warm On noonday flowers; speaking the song of birds Among the branches; whispering the fall of rain; Beyond all thought, past action and past words, I would live in beauty, free from self and pain.