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 for ever by the curse
    Which breathes through Nature. Oh, the world is weak!
    The effluence of each is false to all,
    And 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.


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Return to the Elizabeth Barrett Browning library , or . . . Read the next poem; Irreparableness

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