human
When I attain to utter forth in verse Some inward thought, my soul throbs audibly Along my pulses, yearning to be free, And something farther, fuller, higher rehearse, To the individual true, and the universe, In consummation of right harmony! But, like a wind-exposed, distorted tree, We are blown against forever by the curse Which breathes through Nature. Oh, the world is weak; The effluence of each is false to all; Add what we best conceive, we fail to speak! Wait, soul, until thine ashen garments fall, And then resume thy broken strains, and seek Fit peroration without let or thrall!
gpt
And though we must have and have had Right reason to be earthly sad, Thou Poet-God art great and glad!