Poem by Lewis Morris

Fetters

OH who shall say that we are free!
Surely life's chains are strong to bind
From youth to age, from birth to death,
Body and mind.

We run the riotous race of youth,
Then turn from evil things to good:
'Tis but a slower pulse, a chill
Of youth's hot blood.

We mount the difficult steeps of thought,
Or pace the dusty paths of gain:
'Tis but that sense receding leaves
A keener brain.

Time takes this too, and then we turn
Our dim eyes to the hidden shore;
Life palls, and yet we long to live,
Ay, nothing more. 

1. Marching
2. At an Almshouse
3. Dear Little Hand
4. Caged
5. Waking

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