 | Lucile |  |
VI.
To this class my hero remotely belongs—A class, doubtless, more common in life than in songs.
If genius he had not, at least he had much
That to genius is kindred: one feverish touch
Of that hunger which urges for ever the soul
To some infinite, distant, impossible goal:
The horseleech's daughter that cries in the heart
With her ceaseless ‘give, give!’ and sits pining apart
From the purpose of all things.
| Lucile | |