The Old Unrest.
R
Robert Crawford
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That which made us seems to fret
Like a pang within us yet,
As if we unfinished were,
Such blind gropings in us stir,
As light in an eye grown dim
That can no more finely limn
All the senses would impart
To the sad, mysterious heart,
Or an ear grown taut that can
No more tune the tones of man.
We are still such troubled elves,
As we were beside ourselves —
One with Him, it may be, who
Is as vexed as we are too
With a mystic malady
Running through Eternity!
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