Passion-Flowers (Howe)/Entbehren

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ENTBEHREN.
On! happy he who never heldIn trembling arms a form adored,Oh! happy he who never yetOn worshipped lips love's kisses poured!
Though, worn in weary ways of thought,Thy lonely soul eat pilgrim-bread;Though smiling Beauty in thy pathHer banquet of delights should spread,
And bare to thee her rosy breast,And pour for thee the golden wineThat throngs thy brain with visions blest,Each than the last more inly thine; ​
'T is but the phantom of an hourThat fades before thy waking glance,And not that high ideal of thoughtWhich forms the bounds of hope and chance.
Bind not the giant of the soulBy bootless vows to wear a chain,Whose narrow fetters, pressing close,Its nobler growth shall rend in twain.
The Infinite, that sees us thusMould its transcendent form in clay,Tramples our idol into dust,And we afresh must seek and pray.
And thou shalt suffer to be free,But most shalt suffer to be bound,Pour, then, the cup of thy desireAn offering upon holy ground.
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