211
COMMUNINGS WITH THOUGHT.
Could we but keep our spirits to that height,
We might be happy; but this clay will sink
Its spark immortal.
Byron.
Return, my thoughts, come home!
Ye wild and wing'd! what do ye o'er the deep?
And wherefore thus th' abyss of time o'ersweep,
As birds the ocean foam?
Swifter than shooting star,
Swifter than lances of the northern light,
Upspringing through the purple heaven of night,
Hath been your course afar!
