  N Not high above us with the pitiless stars, Nor deep below us in the soundless sea, Nor far away to east or westward, lie The little things we long for. Here they are; Close to our hands, the eager, restless hands That fain would grasp them; and no fetters bind The wistful fingers; no relentless fate Tells us we must not; we are wholly free To take them if we choose. And yet—and yet— We dare not! lest the soul should wake some day, Years hence, perhaps, to sense of other needs. God save us ever from those sudden moods When all life narrows to a single point, And when the poor heart seizes its desire. Only to wake to deeper restlessness. But after all, what matter? would it be Harder to wake years hence to sense of thirst Than to stand thirsty now? for sunny wine Sparkles before us, and a precious pearl, Eager to lose its life upon our lips, Waits but our instant grasping to dissolve Its costly beauty in the nectar. Nay! We have no right to the white lovely pearl. God give us strength not to stretch out our hands! See! they are slipping slowly from our reach— Fading into the darkness— They are gone— |
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