Were it not horrible? After all the dreams we dream, Our yearnings and our prayers, If this "I" were but a stream Of thoughts, sensations, joys, and pains, Which being clogged, no soul remains; Even as the fountain seems to be A shape of one identity, But only is a stream of drops, And when the swift succession stops, The fountain melts and disappears, Leaving no trace but scattered tears. Yet even here, O foolish heart, Thou wert not cheated of thy part; Were it not better, even here, To keep thy current pure and clear, With pearly drops of dew to wet The amaranth and violet, And round thy crystal feet to shower Blessings and beauty every hour -- Better than in a sullen flow To creep along the ground, and go Wasting and sinking through the sand, To make no single spot of land Happier or holier for thy being -- Refresh no flower, no grass-blade, seeing Thou wert not always thus to stand? |