Poem of the day
by Robert Browning
O God, where does this tend-these struggling aims?
What would I have? What is this -sleep-, which seems
To bound all? can there be a -waking- point
Of crowning life? The soul would never rule-
It would be first in all things-it would have
Its utmost pleasure filled,-but that complete
Commanding for commanding sickens it.
The last point I can trace is, rest beneath
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