With stammering lips and insufficient sound
I strive and struggle to deliver right
That music of my nature, day and night
Wich dream and thought and feeling interwound,
And inly answering all the senses round
With octaves of a mystic depth and height
Which step out grandly to the infinite
From the dark edges of the sensual ground.
This song of soul I sruggle to outbear
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air;
But if did it, - as the thunder-roll
Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.