 | Three Hundred Sonnets |  |
257
THE WORLD.
Well-named in sound and sense,—the world, the world!Because, in circling tides of fate-whorl'd rings
That ceaseless whirlpool heart is toss'd and twirl'd,
A caldron seething up with thoughts and things;
Because that whirlwind soul, on worrying wings
Flapping disquiet, ever flies unfurl'd,
Like a swift smoke from steaming lava springs;
Because that whirl of change, of vexing change,
Is as a poisonous tendril, closely curl'd
Round a man's spirit-harp, to jar its strings,
Unharmonied by matters sad and strange:
O world! O whirlpool whirlwind whirling world!
Thou art the whorl of Circumstance, that clings
Around our footfalls, wheresoe'er we range.
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