XXXI.
22 lines✦
Can your poet make an EdenNo winter will undo,And light a starry fire while heedingHis hearth's is burning too?Drown in music the earth's din,And keep his own wild soul withinThe law of his own harmony?Mother, albeit this be so,Let me to my heaven go!A little harp me waits thereby,A harp whose strings are golden allAnd tuned to music spherical,Hanging on the green life-treeWhere no willows ever be.Shall I miss that harp of mine?Mother, no!--the Eye divineTurned upon it, makes it shine;And when I touch it, poems sweetLike separate souls shall fly from it,Each to the immortal fytte.We shall all be poets there,Gazing on the chiefest Fair.
✦
