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Adam Lindsay Gordon - To My SoulAdam Lindsay Gordon - To My Soul
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GORDON`S LAST POEM Tired and worn, and wearisome for love Of some immortal hope beyond the grave, Thy soul thou frettest like the prisoned dove That now is sick to rest, and now doth crave To cleave the upward sky with sudden wing ! The heaven is clear and boundless, and thy flight To some new land might be a joyous thing. Within this cage of clay there is no light ; Glimpses between its mortal bars there be That bring a powerful longing to be free, And tones that reach the ear mysteriously When thou art wrapt in thy divinest dream. Yet thou art but the plaything and the slave Of some strange power that wears thy strength away Slowly and surely, which thou dar`st not brave Because pale men in some tradition say It is a God that would not have thee `scape The torture that He wills to be thy fate. `Tis but a tyrant`s dream, and born of hate ; Then, soul, be not disquieted with doubt ; Step to the brink this hand shall let thee out.
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