Longing (Lowell)

Of all the myriad moods of mindThat through the soul come thronging,Which one was e'er so dear, so kind,So beautiful as Longing?The thing we long for, that we areFor one transcendent moment,Before the Present poor and bareCan make its sneering comment.

Still, through our paltry stir and strife,Glows down the wished ideal,And Longing moulds in clay what LifeCarves in the marble Real;To let the new life in, we know,Desire must ope the portal;—Perhaps the longing to be soHelps make the soul immortal.

Longing is God's fresh heavenward will.With our poor earthward striving;We quench it that we may be stillContent with merely living;But, would we learn that heart's full scopeWhich we are hourly wronging,Our lives must climb from hope to hopeAnd realize our longing.

Ah! let us hope that to our praiseGood God not only reckonsThe moments when we tread his ways,But when the spirit beckons,—That some slight good is also wroughtBeyond self-satisfaction,When we are simply good in thought,Howe'er we fail in action.