 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
[XIV. We are but what we think, and must immortal be]
We are but what we think, and must immortal be,
Else whence hath come the thought of immortality?
Else whence hath come the thought of immortality?
The limits of its sphere can nothing e'er transcend,
And thought, roam where it will, can never find its end.
And thought, roam where it will, can never find its end.
Around the soul one thought of nebulous glory clings,
As Saturn is ensphered within its luminous rings.
As Saturn is ensphered within its luminous rings.
This pours upon our life its pure and lambent light,
And brings its fullest joy when sorrow brings the night.
And brings its fullest joy when sorrow brings the night.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |