But Quiet to quick bosoms is a Hell,

And there hath been thy bane; there is a fire

And motion of the Soul which will not dwell

In its own narrow being, but aspire

Beyond the fitting medium of desire;

And, but once kindled, quenchless evermore,

Preys upon high adventure, nor can tire[ia]

Of aught but rest; a fever at the core,

Fatal to him who bears, to all who ever bore.