Joy is there made for all, transparent tide
Of earth-embathing air, sun's general light,
Sea, legioned stars, fields variously bright,
And in a common country common pride:
And joy to human multitudes denied,
But solitary meed of soul of might,
Pacing in lone content the silent height,
Save by his own thought unaccompanied:
Joy, too, not made for many or for one;
Flashing, as when the flying iron rings
Sharp on smit stone beside the paven way,
As Love to Love in exultation springs:
As fades the star of morn in morning's sun,
All rosiest rapture to such joy is grey.