THE SOUL'S SELF
MY friend, do you believe I rate my soul
As better than it is?—Then let it be,—
Nor rob me of the nobler part of me.
Better a half truth than a lying whole,
I am that part I would myself conceive.
'Tis through such errors martyrs face the flame
Smiling, and keep down cowardice for shame
Since they in God and in themselves believe!
What is the Rose? 'T is not a thorny bush,
But June incarnate bidding hearts rejoice;
This small brown bird is not the woodland thrush,
But all the summer's sweetness in a voice;
The soul's true self is that which closest lies
To the great silent heart whence all things rise.
