FLEEING AWAY.

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.