BOOKS I would read, but most go unread, And music be unheard, and lands unseen; Fragments of learning only, one may glean; And love itself, though brightly faceted, Flashes a narrow fire whose flame has led Each in a separate way. And this has been And will be for all time. There is no mean Nor centre where all things are sung and said. Now in the time of youth why must I feel Life's narrowness; and, uncontent with you, Struggle to break it, searching in all lands For every glimpse of living they reveal?... Make me forget, and drift an hour or two, While the whole world lies quiet in your hands. |