II.

O God, my father, God! Didst give me fire To rise above the clod, And soar, aspire! What tho' I strive and strive, And all my life says live, The sneerful scorn of men But beats it down again; And, O! sun-centered high, O God! grand poet! Beneath thy tender sky Each day new Keatses die, And thou dost know it!