I must content myself with a few brief observations and a few quotations of favourite passages. I would very much like to write about the poem at length, but circumstances are such that, after some months of waiting for an opportunity, I am forced to concede that there is “much wanting, so much wanting, in myself”. It is, I cannot help concluding, one of the greatest long-form poems in English. It is such a beautiful poem: thoughtful in its matter, tender and honest in its expression, subtle in its argument, and written with such grace and eloquence that it rings in the ear like song. Like a false steward who hath much receivedīut he was, finally, a good steward and not a bad, not, at least, in this. Unprofitably travelling toward the grave, Much wanting, so much wanting, in myself, Then feels immediately some hollow thought Turns recreant to her task takes heart again, Baffled and plagued by a mind that every hour
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