What bids me leave thee long untouched, my lute,
Hanging so dusty, still, and mute?
Too many dreams behind these worn eyes throng
And sights too great for song.

When I was young how quick thy passions poured—
Wave on wave, chord on chord—
All simple wingèd transport and high strain
Of Earth made heaven again;

But I have seen the world, for all its wit,
Dangling on fire over the pit;
And I must dream what taught our dreamless dead
To save Man, by a thread.