 | The collected poems of William Ellery Channing the younger, 1817-1901 |  |
959
IX
I feel it shall be so; we were not bornTo sink our finer feelings in the dust;
Far better to the grave with feelings torn—
So in our step strides Truth and honest trust
In the great love of things—than to be slaves
To forms—whose ringing side each stroke we give
Stamps with a hollower void;—yes, to our graves
Hurrying or e'er we in the heavens' look live
Strangers to our best hopes, and fearing men,
Yea, fearing death—and to be born again.
| The collected poems of William Ellery Channing the younger, 1817-1901 | |