The Impercipient
That from this bright believing bandAn outcast I should be,That faiths by which my comrades standSeem fantasies to me,And mirage-mists their Shining Land,Is a drear destiny.
Why thus my soul should be consignedTo infelicity,Why always I must feel as blindTo sights my brethren see,Why joys they’ve found I cannot find,Abides a mystery.
Since heart of mine knows not that easeWhich they know; since it beThat He who breathes All’s Well to theseBreathes no All’s-Well to me,My lack might move their sympathiesAnd Christian charity!
I am like a gazer who should markAn inland companyStanding upfingered, with, “Hark! hark!The glorious distant sea!”And feel, “Alas, ’tis but yon darkAnd wind-swept pine to me!”
Yet I would bear my shortcomingsWith meet tranquillity,But for the charge that blessed thingsI’d liefer have unbe.O, doth a bird deprived of wingsGo earth-bound wilfully!
Enough. As yet disquiet clingsAbout us. Rest shall we.
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