Too oft, when our new minstrels sing,
How fine so-e'er the Song be wrought,
We catch behind the stricken string
Some touch that tells the music taught
Less by an impulse than a thought: —
Not so with thine, O Poet, where
We breathe again the passionate air,
And feel, at Love's divine commands,
Once more the joy too keen to bear,
And the hot tears upon our hands.