THOUGH never shown by word or deed, Within us lies some germ of power, As lies unguessed, within the seed, The latent flower. And under every common sense That doth its daily use fulfill, There lies another, more intense, And beauteous still. This dusty house, wherein is shrined The soul, is but the counterfeit Of that which shall be, more refined, And exquisite. The light which to our sight belongs, Enfolds a light more broad and clear; Music but intimates the songs We do not hear. The fond embrace, the tender kiss Which love to its expression brings, Are but the husk the chrysalis Wears on its wings. The vigor falling to decay, Hopes, impulses that fade and die, Are but the layers peeled away From life more high. When death shall come and disallow These rough and ugly masks we wear, I think, that we shall be as now, -- Only more fair. And He who makes his love to be Always around me, sure and calm, Sees what is possible to me, Not what I am. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THIRD BOOK OF AIRS: SONG 26. FIRST LOVE by THOMAS CAMPION THE LITTLE TURTLE by NICHOLAS VACHEL LINDSAY BARCAROLE: DE VIGNY by E. G. B. PRINCE ARTHUR: THE CRYSTAL PALACES by RICHARD BLACKMORE RECOGNITION by HARRY RANDOLPH BLYTHE SPRING GLADNESS by JOHN BURROUGHS |