Holy of holies Confessions of an anarchist [by J. E. Barlas] |
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44
XL.
[Hark to the tempest caught in a deep rift]
Hark to the tempest caught in a deep riftOf the high mountains, netted in the firs,
How restless round the narrow gorge it stirs,
As on a whirlpool's power a ship adrift,
Or eagle strong, that vainly strives to lift
His cagéd flight aloft, (with his strong spurs
He strikes the ground, and his vain pinion whirs)
Then, finding outlet, issues sudden and swift.
So beats the human soul its narrow bound,
So wheeling flaps, and gropes along the wall,
And wastes its strength divine in panting breath.
Then, on a sudden, as it circles round,
It strikes upon an outlet, and from thrall
Forth issues into freedom. This is death.
March 21st, 1886
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