We seek to know, and knowing seek;
We seek, we know, and every sense
Is trembling with the great intense,
And vibrating to what we speak.

We ask too much, we seek too oft;
We know enough and should no more;
And yet we skim through Fancy's lore,
And look to earth and not aloft.

* * * * *

O Sea! whose ancient ripples lie
On red-ribbed sands where seaweeds shone;
O moon! whose golden sickle's gone,
O voices all! like you I die!

Cuthbert Bede.