The Soul's Quest and Other Poems

by Frederick George Scott




THE confines of our being are not these
    White limbs of sense. Our true selves broader are
    And higher than the path of furthest star.
Beyond the reach of sense, each hears and sees
And feels. The root alone of giant trees
    Touches the earth; their branches pierce to heaven.
    “To-day,” “Here,” “There,” are to the body given;
Our spirits watch among the eternities.

Dearest, our beings can mingle, and our lips
    Kiss off the dark world-sadness from the soul;

        Our hands can clasp, our eyes return love’s gaze,
Tho’ waste lands moan between, where crimson dips
    The westering sun, and tho’ wide oceans roll;
        Tho’ being so far, we breathe in different days.