 | The Writings of Bret Harte |  |
MY SOUL TO THINE
A TRANSCENDENTAL VALENTINE
Antithesis of Light, which is but gloom,
Myself in darkness shrouds; I know not why
Thy glances re-illumine—yet of them, One
Is ever in my eye!
Myself in darkness shrouds; I know not why
Thy glances re-illumine—yet of them, One
Is ever in my eye!
Perchance 't is why I hold this thought most dear—
What is, may still be, what is fixed won't change:
The Future and the Past are not as clear
As things that are less strange.
What is, may still be, what is fixed won't change:
The Future and the Past are not as clear
As things that are less strange.
Who knows what's What, yet says not which is Which—
He is reticent and precise in speech;
The same should tune his thoughts to concert pitch
By some deep sounding beach.
He is reticent and precise in speech;
The same should tune his thoughts to concert pitch
By some deep sounding beach.
But he who knoweth Which and what is Which—
He is not simple nor perchance is dull—
Shall occupy himself a vacant niche
In some stupendous Whole.
He is not simple nor perchance is dull—
Shall occupy himself a vacant niche
In some stupendous Whole.
| The Writings of Bret Harte | |