Here they are;
Close to our hands, the eager, restless hands
That fain would grasp them; and no fetters bind
The wistful fingers; no relentless fate
Tells us we must not; we are wholly free
To take them if we choose.
And yet—and yet—
We dare not! lest the soul should wake some day,
Years hence, perhaps, to sense of other needs.
God save us ever from those sudden moods