 | The professor and other poems |  |
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7
SURRENDER
I, in my chill and celibate content,
Have little claim to murmur: but I pine
To feel a warm hand tremble into mine,
And loving lips above my forehead bent;
And yet my dreams are charged with high intent
To do, to be, to suffer; to refine
My troubled thought, till these thin strains combine
With larger themes, in airy concord blent.
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That yearning, as the magnet for the pole,
Still wavers, till the secret current set
Towards its true home: in indolent regret
I linger: could I break the sickly trance!
And in one fierce surrender, find my soul!
| The professor and other poems | |