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Poems by Hartley Coleridge | ||
23
XXI.
I know too little of thee, my dear friend,Or else too much,—for nothing less than all
Were quite enough to guide me to the end
And fatal purpose of thine earthly call.
I know thy will is stubborn as a wall
Against all acts that trespass or offend.
I know there is no sin or fault so small
Wherewith the current of thy soul would blend;
But yet I know that there is something yet
Which I know not, a burden on thy breast
No joy of earth can make thy heart forget;
The sleepless thought that will not be at rest,
That, like a wee bird struggling in the net,
Still whines and twitters of its distant nest.
April, 1846.
Poems by Hartley Coleridge | ||