Henry Alford

Sonnet LXXXVIII. "The inward pleasure of our human soul"

The inward pleasure of our human soul Oweth no homage to the tyrant Will: Whether the roving spirit take its fill Of strange delight, watching the far waves roll And break upon the shore,--or by the bowl Of some moss--lined fountain cool and still, Or by the music of a tinkling rill, Wander in maze of thought, without control: Nor can the chains of ill--assured belief Fetter the strivings of the deathless mind; Nor dull prescription bound the throes of grief; Spirits, in action nor degree confined, Range the vast system:--whither, then, should I But to sweet Nature for my wisdom fly?