In truth the prison, unto which we doom Ourselves, no prison is:
Still glides the Stream, and shall for ever glide; The Forms remains, the Function never dies;
To me the meanest flower that blows can give Thoughts that do often lie too deep for tears.
O Cuckoo! shall I call thee Bird, Or but a wandering Voice?
Once did She hold the gorgeous East in fee; And was the safeguard of the West:
Dear God! the very houses seem asleep; And all that mighty heart is lying still!
Hearing often-times The still, sad music of humanity, Nor harsh nor grating, though of ample power To chasten and subdue.
Dust as we are, the immortal spirit grows Like harmony in music; there is a dark Inscrutable workmanship that reconciles Discordant elements, makes them cling together In one society.
From low to high doth dissolution climb, And sink from high to low, along a scale Of awful notes, whose concord shall not fail;
I should need Colours and words that are unknown to man, To paint the visionary dreariness