To go down to the grave with many a dream
Hid in the breast, but never clothed in words,
With not one hope again to touch the chords
That brought such music—were but the extreme
Of a brute creed. Far other faith than this
Must have my worship; for the unlaurel'd ones,
Whose hearts were of that delicate tint which shuns
The gaze and rush of life, save that which is
Born of their fancy, after death may be
The poets of a mightier world than ours,
And twine each fresh burst of their spirit pow'rs
To stars and systems as they glide and flee;
And, safe from scorn of men and earthly things,
Shoot their ripe souls into eternal strings.