Been reading ‘The Buried Life’ very slowly here for some days now – see previous posts – but I’m short of time this morning as I went back to sleep while reading after a very early (even for me) waking. A mountain of work awaits. But I don’t want to rush this next bit as it is my favourite part of the poem. So think I’ll just have to read these next 12 lines to myself and then come back to them with a longer writing time tomorrow.
And many a man in his own breast then delves,
But deep enough, alas! none ever mines.
And we have been on many thousand lines,
And we have shown, on each, spirit and power;
But hardly have we, for one little hour,
Been on our own line, have we been ourselves—
Hardly had skill to utter one of all
The nameless feelings that course through our breast,
But they course on for ever unexpress’d.
And long we try in vain to speak and act
Our hidden self, and what we say and do
Is eloquent, is well—but ‘t is not true!
Meanwhile, here are some more of yesterday’s lovely park-walking-meeting photos:
