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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Old Unrest.</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><a href="http://www.citatepedia.com/comments.php?id=506723" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none">That which made us seems to fret<br>Like a pang within us yet,<br>As if we unfinished were,<br>Such blind gropings in us stir,<br>As light in an eye grown dim<br>That can no more finely limn<br>All the senses would impart<br>To the sad, mysterious heart,<br>Or an ear grown taut that can<br>No more tune the tones of man.<br>We are still such troubled elves,<br>As we were beside ourselves —<br>One with Him, it may be, who<br>Is as vexed as we are too<br>With a mystic malady<br>Running through Eternity!</a></div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><a href="http://poems.citatepedia.com/">poem</a> by <strong><a rel="author" href="http://authors.citatepedia.com/by.php?a=Robert+Crawford">Robert Crawford</a></strong></div>

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