Poet is an

h idle elbow

inging, like a

des and fancies

ng, which, in

e music of the

yrant, lifting

through the so

e,-oh no! un

s who doth no

n freely by ou

y's dross, the

spirit of t

s that hide thy

soul be yet

ings to soar

o more to-morr

efaced to speak

tar all the g

ire, the loving

no more the M

ward footsteps

d, like to the

gs of some new-l

no more, bu

was but gra

auty thou couldst

its highest t

est tost with s

arest voices

verfilled with

fear, and g

l-strung hands

her Earth with

hero-spirit

ature is not c

y soul break i

ocean that i

pe, thy fear, thy

e what all its

dered crowd of b

lingers but a s

need of marty

texts for neve

e man's still

pe and sees wit

arger measure

reat forerunner

onèd where the

nder lifts it

gs down like a g

ink and find th

silence grow in

deep awe and

gladly, bend th

rtal like an