 | The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton |  |
127
THE PALSY OF THE HEART.
I see the worlds of earth and sky
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye—
I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,—
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.
With beauty filled to overflow;
My spirit lags behind the eye—
I know, but feel not as I know:
Those miracles of form and hue
I can dissect with artist skill,
But more than this I cannot do,—
Enjoyment rests beyond the will.
Round me in rich profusion lie
Nectareous fruits of ancient mind,
The thoughts that have no power to die
In golden poesy enshrined:
And near me hang, of later birth,
Ripe clusters from the living tree,
But what the pleasure, what the worth,
If all is savourless to me!
Nectareous fruits of ancient mind,
The thoughts that have no power to die
In golden poesy enshrined:
And near me hang, of later birth,
Ripe clusters from the living tree,
But what the pleasure, what the worth,
If all is savourless to me!
I hear the subtle chords of sound,
Entangled, loosed, and knit anew;
The music floats without—around—
But will not enter and imbue:
While harmonies diviner still,
Sweet greetings, appellations dear,
That used through every nerve to thrill
I often hear, and only hear.
Entangled, loosed, and knit anew;
The music floats without—around—
But will not enter and imbue:
128
Sweet greetings, appellations dear,
That used through every nerve to thrill
I often hear, and only hear.
O dreadful thought! if by God's grace
To souls like mine there should be given
That perfect presence of his face,
Which we, for want of words, call Heaven,—
And unresponsive even there
This heart of mine could still remain,
And its intrinsic evil bear
To realms that know no other pain.
To souls like mine there should be given
That perfect presence of his face,
Which we, for want of words, call Heaven,—
And unresponsive even there
This heart of mine could still remain,
And its intrinsic evil bear
To realms that know no other pain.
Better down nature's scale to roll,
Far as the base unbreathing clod,
Than rest a conscious reasoning soul,
Impervious to the light of God;—
Hateful the powers that but divine
What we have lost beyond recall,
The intellectual plummet-line
That sounds the depths to which we fall.
Far as the base unbreathing clod,
Than rest a conscious reasoning soul,
Impervious to the light of God;—
Hateful the powers that but divine
What we have lost beyond recall,
The intellectual plummet-line
That sounds the depths to which we fall.
1841.
| The Poetical Works of (Richard Monckton Milnes) Lord Houghton | |