My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; But ever and often, and more and more They are dragged down earthward by little things, By little troubles and little needs, As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.
My purpose is not what it ought to be, Steady and fixed, like a star on high, But more like a fisherman's light at sea; Hither and thither it seems to fly- Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.
My life is far from my dream of life- Calmly contented, serenely glad; But, vexed and worried by daily strife, It is always troubled, and ofttimes sad- And the heights I had thought I should reach one day Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.
My heart finds never the longed-for rest; Its worldly striving, its greed for gold, Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest, Who sometimes sought me in days of old; And ever fleeing away from me Is the higher self that I long to be.
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