At Issue

THAT voice I hear,—how heard I cannot tell,—

Although my home is this, seems from my home:

There… still it trails along and murmurs “Come”;

Like the slow death of sound within a bell,

Or like the humming whine in some pink shell

Wet with the brittle beadage of the foam

Which bird—eyed damsels stoop for when they roam

By the old sea. Were't not exceeding well

To shake my soul out of this tiresome life

For a call any—whence and any—whither?

That voice knows all the life I have or had,

And mocks me not,—it's whisper is too sad.

Even to attain calm sorrow lures me thither,

Since here this search for joy wearies like strife.