TH stammering lips and insufficient soundI strive and struggle to deliver
That music of my nature, day and
With dream and thought and feeling
And inly answering all the senses
With octaves of a mystic depth and
Which step out grandly to the
From the dark edges of the sensual ground.
This song of soul I struggle to
Through portals of the sense, sublime and whole,
And utter all myself into the air:
But if I did it, — as the
Breaks its own cloud, my flesh would perish there,
Before that dread apocalypse of soul.
