’Tis a great aim, this will to wander lonely,
This high ambition, gnawing its heart’s core,
To scorn this life, and live thy dying only,
Along the years that hear thy words no more:
’Tis great, to burst the web that stays thy hand,
Stern to rush on, nor pause, nor look, nor hear;
To escape mute love’s imploring glance and band;
To feel intensely, yet to shed no tear;
As one who swims, fights with wave-baffling arms,
Wrestling with the roaring, wracking, whistling waters,
So, too, resistless urge thy way through harms,
Nor swerve for earth, her sons, or charming daughters:
All this seems great, yet I would rather rest
My troubled fancies in thy loving breast.