Yet am I compact of so many moods,
That a great yearning comes on me at times
For an illimitable night of stars,
Jewelling with their fire the purple vault
Of Heaven, wherein my soul would hang, alone,
Unconscious of this striving purposeless,
That vexes all our being; and anon
Comes, soft as flutes on an enchanted night,
The murmur of Life’s magic in mine ears.
The old cajoler and her henchman Love