Iv

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, Most gracious singer of high poems ! where The dancers will break footing, from the care Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear To let thy music drop here unaware In folds of golden fulness at my door ? Look up and see the casement broken in, The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. Hush, call no echo up in further proof Of desolation ! there 's a voice within That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof