DISCONTENT

Like a thorn in the flesh, like a fly in the mesh,

Like a boat that is chained to shore,

The wild unrest of the heart in my breast

Tortures me more and more.

I wot not why, it should wail and cry

Like a child that is lost at night,

For it knew no grief, but has found relief,

And it is not touched with blight.

It has had of pleasure full many a measure;

It has thrilled with love's red wine;

It has hope and health, and youth's rare wealth —

Oh rich is this heart of mine.

Yet it is not glad — it is wild and mad

Like a billow before it breaks;

And its ceaseless pain is worse than vain,

Since it knows not why it aches.

It longs to be, like the waves of the sea

That rise in their might and beat

And dash and lunge, and hurry and plunge,

And die at the grey rocks’ feet.

It wearies of life and it sickens of strife

And yet it tires of rest.

Oh! I know not why it should ache and cry —

‘ Tis a troublesome heart at best.

Though not understood, I think it a good

And God-like discontent.

It springs from the soul that longs for its goal —

For the source from which it was sent.

Then surge, O breast, with thy wild unrest —

Cry, heart, like a child at night,

Till the mystic shore of the Evermore

Shall dawn on thy eager sight.