When I am only I,
The secret battle--ground
Of world and will, wherein
Self is so strictly bound,

Then am I condemned;
Then can I understand
The heart crumbling to dust
And the eyes stopt with sand.

But when, self fallen asleep,
Quickens through all my veins
The entrancing light, and stream
The rivers and the rains,

Though to the wondrous earth
The tendril senses cling
And amid living leaves
I, as a bird, sing.

The breath comes of a world
Beyond all human moan.
There I am lost, and there
I am come into mine own.