Page:The Poetical Works of William Motherwell, 1849.djvu/497



! what is thy quest?—What owns this world Of stalking shadows, fleeting phantasies, Enjoyments substanceless—to wed the mind To its still querulous, ever-faltering mate— Or crib the pinion of the aspiring soul (Upborne ever by the mystical) To a poor nook of this sin-stricken earth, Or sterile point of time?—The Universe, My spirit, is thy birth-right—and thy term Of occupance, thou river, limitless— Eternity!