 | Song-spray |  |
105
XII. THY SOUL.
Thou hast no weakness of the common soul
Within thee: thou hast breathed the mountain-air
Of God, and found the angels' singing fair,
And heard the eternal tides that surge and roll
Upon the heavenly shores:—thou dost control
With will indomitable thine own rare
Most fiery spirit, and dost the yearning share
Of those who pant but for the proudest goal.
Within thee: thou hast breathed the mountain-air
Of God, and found the angels' singing fair,
And heard the eternal tides that surge and roll
Upon the heavenly shores:—thou dost control
With will indomitable thine own rare
Most fiery spirit, and dost the yearning share
Of those who pant but for the proudest goal.
Thou art a woman-flame: thou would'st consume
With thine own fervour smaller souls if these
Beheld thee as thou art; but swathed in ease
And wrapped in fragrant mists of valley-bloom
Such apprehend not ever what thou art,
Nor fathom the hill-grandeur of thine heart.
With thine own fervour smaller souls if these
Beheld thee as thou art; but swathed in ease
And wrapped in fragrant mists of valley-bloom
Such apprehend not ever what thou art,
Nor fathom the hill-grandeur of thine heart.
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