Sonnet Lxxxviii. The Inward Pleasure Of Our Human Soul Poem by Henry Alford

The inward pleasure of our human soul
Oweth no homage to the tyrant Will:
Whether the roving spirit take its fill
Of strange delight, watching the far waves roll
And break upon the shore,--or by the bowl
Of some moss--lined fountain cool and still,
Or by the music of a tinkling rill,
Wander in maze of thought, without control:
Nor can the chains of ill--assured belief
Fetter the strivings of the deathless mind;
Nor dull prescription bound the throes of grief;
Spirits, in action nor degree confined,
Range the vast system:--whither, then, should I
But to sweet Nature for my wisdom fly?