Samuel Taylor Coleridge
HIS Soul fared forth (as from the deep home—grove
The father—songster plies the hour—long quest),
To feed his soul—brood hungering in the nest;
But his warm Heart, the mother—bird, above
Their callow fledgling progeny still hove
With tented roof of wings and fostering breast
Till the Soul fed the soul—brood. Richly blest
From Heaven their growth, whose food was Human Love.
Yet ah! Like desert pools that show the stars
Once in long leagues,—even such the scarce—snatched hours
Which deepening pain left to his lordliest powers:—
Heaven lost through spider—trammelled prison—bars.
Six years, from sixty saved! Yet kindling skies
Own them, a beacon to our centuries.
