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The Impercipient

(at a Cathedral Service)
 
    THAT from this bright believing band
       An outcast I should be,
    That faiths by which my comrades stand
       Seem fantasies to me,
    And mirage-mists their Shining Land,
       Is a drear destiny.
 
    Why thus my soul should be consigned
       To infelicity,
    Why always I must feel as blind
       To sights my brethren see,
    Why joys they’ve found I cannot find,
       Abides a mystery.
 
    Since heart of mine knows not that ease
       Which they know; since it be
    That He who breathes All’s Well to these
       Breathes no All’s Well to me,
    My lack might move their sympathies
       And Christian charity!
 
    I am like a gazer who should mark
       An inland company
    Standing upfingered, with, “Hark! hark!
       The glorious distant sea!”
    And feel, “Alas, 'tis but yon dark
       And wind-swept pine to me!”
 
    Yet I would bear my shortcomings
       With meet tranquillity,
    But for the charge that blessed things
       I’d liefer have unbe.
 
    O, doth a bird deprived of wings
       Go earth-bound wilfully!
         .     .     .     .
    Enough. As yet disquiet clings
       About us. Rest shall we.
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