III.

Now fair thou art, Thou form, whose life is of my burning heart! Yet all the vision that within me wrought, I cannot make thee. Oh! I might have given Birth to creations of far nobler thought; I might have kindled, with the fire of heaven, Things not of such as die! But I have been Too much alone! A heart whereon to lean, With all these deep affections that o’erflow My aching soul, and find no shore below; An eye to be my star; a voice to bring Hope o’er my path like sounds that breathe of spring? These are denied me--dreamt of still in vain. Therefore my brief aspirings from the chain Are ever but as some wild fitful song, Rising triumphantly, to die ere long In dirge-like echoes.