Fleeing Away

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 finds never 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.