XX
It were not well with man did he not feel
At home with his own nature, all we are
Conspiring with our angel and our star
To keep our being whole, or, broken, heal,
Lest in some faulted mould the soul congeal.
And oft-times ’tis the Highest that doth mar
The Perfect in us, straining us too far,
And overreaching Justice. Hence the peal
Of that great cachinnation echoing woke
Appreciation of the lofty use
Of comedy, to shake the settling soul
Out of itself. The Elemental spoke,
And something broadened in me. The recluse
Unstiffened, and I felt my nature whole.
Hesepe, 11th June