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Elizabeth Barrett Browning - From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’Elizabeth Barrett Browning - From ‘The Soul’s Travelling’
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God, God!   With a child’s voice I cry,   Weak, sad, confidingly—      God, God!   Thou knowest, eyelids, raised not always up           Unto Thy love (as none of ours are), droop    As ours, o’er many a tear!   Thou knowest, though Thy universe is broad,   Two little tears suffice to cover all:   Thou knowest, Thou, who art so prodigal         Of beauty, we are oft but stricken deer   Expiring in the woods—that care for none   Of those delightsome flowers they die upon.     O blissful Mouth which breathed the mournful breath   We name our souls, self-spoilt!—by that strong passion         Which paled Thee once with sighs,—by that strong death   Which made Thee once unbreathing—from the wrack   Themselves have called around them, call them back,   Back to Thee in continuous aspiration!    For here, O Lord,         For here they travel vainly,—vainly pass   From city-pavement to untrodden sward,   Where the lark finds her deep nest in the grass   Cold with the earth’s last dew. Yea, very vain   The greatest speed of all these souls of men         Unless they travel upward to the throne   Where sittest THOU, the satisfying ONE,   With help for sins and holy perfectings   For all requirements—while the archangel, raising   Unto Thy face his full ecstatic gazing,         Forgets the rush and rapture of his wings.
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