To My Soul by Adam Lindsay Gordon

Tired and worn, and wearisome for love
   Of some immortal hope beyond the grave,
Thy soul thou frettest like the prisoned dove
   That now is sick to rest, and now doth crave   
To cleave the upward sky with sudden wing!
   The heaven is clear and boundless, and thy flight
To some new land might be a joyous thing,
   Within this cage of clay there is no light;
Glimpses between its mortal bars there be
That bring a powerful longing to be free,
And tones that reach the ear so mysteriously
When thou art wrapt in thy divinest dream.
Yet thou art but the plaything and the slave
   Of some strange power that wears thy strength away ---
Slowly and surely, which thou dar'st not brave
   Because pale men in some tradition say
It is a God that would not have thee 'scape
The torture that He wills to be thy fate.
'Tis but a tyrant's dream, and born of hate;
Then, soul, be not disquieted with doubt;
Step to the brink --- this hand shall let thee out.  

First published in The Queenslander, 10 August 1895

Author reference sites: Austlit, Australian Dictionary of Biography

See also.