XXXI.

"Can your poet make an Eden No winter will undo, And light a starry fire while heeding His hearth's is burning too? Drown in music the earth's din, And keep his own wild soul within The 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 all And tuned to music spherical, Hanging on the green life-tree Where no willows ever be. Shall I miss that harp of mine? Mother, no!--the Eye divine Turned upon it, makes it shine; And when I touch it, poems sweet Like separate souls shall fly from it, Each to the immortal fytte. We shall all be poets there, Gazing on the chiefest Fair.