XLII.

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.