It is not anger; could'st thou see it so.— It is not anger,—but the intense desire That burns for ever in me like white fire At last thy soul—a spotless soul—to know. The inward awful inarticulate glow Of passion that, in measure, through my lyre Sounds,—that would lift thee high and ever higher Towards summits robed in majesty of snow. This, this it is that sometimes sternly speaks When thou art weak, and lingerest by the way. God's mountains are before us, and the spray Of ocean; tarry not by river-creeks:— It is not anger, could'st thou this thing prove,— But burning vast intolerable love. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...OCTAVES: 7 by EDWIN ARLINGTON ROBINSON A RUNNABLE STAG by JOHN DAVIDSON A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 28. THE WELSH MARCHES by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN A SHROPSHIRE LAD: 63 by ALFRED EDWARD HOUSMAN THE SONG OF HIAWATHA: HIAWATHA'S WOOING by HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW PLACES: 2. FULL MOON (SANTA BARBARA) by SARA TEASDALE |