WHEN vexed with waking thought, and its dull gleam, I—waiting on the shore of Time—oft close Mine eyes, and while the ocean ebbs and flows Around me, hear its murmurous voice, and dream. And sometimes dreaming thus, the Will supreme My thoughts have bent beneath, will seem to be A Will, not working by its sole decree, But one that wrestles with a counter-stream. And dreaming thus, my heart will give a bound Of yearning love, and wake me with a cry; Oh for the feet of Hermes that I might— A chartered messenger—spurn back the ground And through the reeling world be charged to fly, With but one word to help Him in the fight.
English Poetry - http://eng-poetry.ru/english/index.php. E-mail email@example.com