Ourselves within ourselves, we then are free
To touch the world at every turn, and take
The moods of men and mingle them with ours;
But ourselves out of ourselves, we are slaved
To every passing rumour, loose our hold,
And slipping in the flood of circumstance
Are whirled away.
Self-harmony.
Robert Crawford
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Poem topics: away, world, touch, hold, circumstance, Print This Poem , Rhyme Scheme
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