And life itself is in excess[63]—
When foot and hand, and ear and eye,
Are all with ardor[64] straining high—
How in his heart will spring
A feeling whose mysterious[65] thrall[66]
Is stronger, sweeter far than all!
And on its silent wing,
How, with the clouds, he’ll float away,
As wandering and as lost as they!
[61] Un-re-pressed, not subdued or mastered.