MATTHEW ARNOLD
And thou, prov'd, much enduring,
Wave-toss'd Wanderer!
Who can stand still ?
Ye fade, ye swim, ye waver before me.
The cup again'
Faster, faster,
O Circe, Goddess,
Let the wild thronging train,
The bright procession
Of eddying forms,
Sweep through my soul!
WILLIAM BRIGHTY RANDS
765 The Thought
rNTO the skies, one summer's day, I sent a little Thought away, Up to where, in the blue round, The sun sat shining without sound.
Then my Thought came back to me.
Little Thought, what did you sec
In the regions whence you come ?
And when I spoke, my Thought was dumb.
But she breathed of what was there, In the pure bright upper air, And, because my Thought so shone, I knew she had been shone upon.
Next, by night a Thought I sent Up into the firmament, When the eager stars were out, And the still moon shone about.
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