My soul with vast inquietude doth burn.
Rare drafts are there within thy luscious cup
That I may put my lips upon its brim,
And, sloughing off Earth’s smutch and soilure, quaff
Deeply the secrets of eternal ease?
Or sway’st thou merely as a transient whim,
Idle, capricious, windward-driven chaff?
Yet surely, surely thou art more than these!
Or very All, or very Nothing: why
Hast thou upspoken thirst for what is not