blind angers, and fierce hands,
That keep this restless world
Mean passions that, like choking sands,
Perplex the stream of life,
hot envy and cold greed,
The cankers of the loftier will,
What if ye triumph, and yet bleed?
Ah, can ye not be still?
there be no space, no time,
No century of weal in store,
No freehold in a nobler clime,
Where men shall strive no more?
motion of the heart
Shall serve the spiritís master-call,
Where self shall be the unseen part,
And human kindness all?
we but by fits and gleams
Sink satisfied, and cease to
Find love but in the rest of dreams,
And peace but in the grave?