That which made us seems to fret <br />Like a pang within us yet, <br />As if we unfinished were, <br />Such blind gropings in us stir, <br />As light in an eye grown dim <br />That can no more finely limn <br />All the senses would impart <br />To the sad, mysterious heart, <br />Or an ear grown taut that can <br />No more tune the tones of man. <br />We are still such troubled elves, <br />As we were beside ourselves — <br />One with Him, it may be, who <br />Is as vexed as we are too <br />With a mystic malady <br />Running through Eternity!<br /><br />Robert Crawford<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-old-unrest/
