An Introduction to the Study of Robert Browning's Poetry by Robert Browning
page 42 of 525 (08%)
page 42 of 525 (08%)
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Even as he knows not how those beams are born,
As little knows he what unlocks their fount; And men have oft grown old among their books To die, case-hardened in their ignorance, Whose careless youth had promised what long years Of unremitted labour ne'er performed: While, contrary, it has chanced some idle day, That autumn-loiterers just as fancy-free As the midges in the sun, have oft given vent To truth -- produced mysteriously as cape Of cloud grown out of the invisible air. Hence, may not truth be lodged alike in all, The lowest as the highest? some slight film The interposing bar which binds it up, And makes the idiot, just as makes the sage Some film removed, the happy outlet whence Truth issues proudly? See this soul of ours! How it strives weakly in the child, is loosed In manhood, clogged by sickness, back compelled By age and waste, set free at last by death: Why is it, flesh enthralls it or enthrones? What is this flesh we have to penetrate? Oh, not alone when life flows still do truth And power emerge, but also when strange chance Ruffles its current; in unused conjuncture, When sickness breaks the body -- hunger, watching, Excess, or languor -- oftenest death's approach -- Peril, deep joy, or woe. One man shall crawl Through life, surrounded with all stirring things, Unmoved -- and he goes mad; and from the wreck |
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