Oh Poetry, oh rarest spirit of all
That dwell within the compass of the mind,
Forsake not him, whom thou of old didst call:
Still let me seek thy face, and seeking find.
Some years have gone about since I and thou
Became acquainted first: we met in woe;
Sad was my cry for help as it is now;
Sad too thy breathed response of music slow;
But in that sadness was such essence fine,
So keen a sense of Life's mysterious name,
And high conceit of Natures more divine,
That breath and sorrow seemed no more the same.
Oh let me hear again that sweet reply!
More than by loss of thee I cannot die.