My thoughts soar not as they ought to soar, 
Higher and higher on soul-lent wings; 
But ever and often and more and more 
They are dragged down earthward by little things, 
By little troubles and little needs, 
As a lark might be tangled among the weeds.

My purpose is not what it ought to be, 
Steady and fixed, like a star on high, 
But more like a fisherman's light at sea; 
Hither and thither it seems to fly-- 
Sometimes feeble, and sometimes bright, 
Then suddenly lost in the gloom of night.

My life is far from my dream of life-- 
Calmly contented, serenely glad; 
But, vexed and worried by daily strife, 
It is always troubled and ofttimes sad-- 
And the heights I had thought I should reach one day 
Grow dimmer and dimmer, and farther away.

My heart never finds the longed-for rest; 
Its worldly striving, its greed for gold, 
Chilled and frightened the calm-eyed guest 
Who sometimes sought me in days of old; 
And ever fleeing away from me 
Is the higher self that I long to be.