And love it more than tongue can speak_
Then the good minute goes.
Already how am I so far
Out of that minute? Must I go
Still like thistle-ball, no bar,
Onward, whenever light winds blow,
Fixed by no friendly star?
Just when I seemed about to learn!
Where is the thread now? Off again.
The old trick! Only I discern__
Infinite passion, and the pain
Of finite hearts that yearn.
