When in the long-drawn avenues of Thought

I halt, and look before me and behind,

And seek what erst I all too little sought,

Some spot secure of rest, I do not find.

Retrace my steps I dare not, lest each nook

I late rejected should reject me now,

And sweetest arbours, restlessly forsook,

No more be prone their leafage to allow.

So to the untrod distance do I strain,

Which seemeth ever further to extend;

Desiring oft, in irritable pain,

Premature sleep would bring that settled End,

When I shall know it all, or else forget

This far too little which for more doth fret.