To drift with every passion till my soul
Is a stringed lute, on which all winds can play,
It is for this that I have given away
Mine ancient wisdom, and austere control?
Me thinks my life is a twice-written scroll
Scrawled over some boyish holiday
With idle songs for pipe and vire lay,
Which but do mar the secret of the whole.
Surely there was a time I might have trod
The sun light heights, and from life’s dissonance
Struck one dear chord to reach the ears of God:
Is that time dead? Lo! With a little rod
I did but touch the honey of romance-
And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?
