When my rash pen endeavours to exalt
The movements or the policies of the time,
Decking my favourite theories in rhyme,
The measures move on leaden feet that halt
Like craven warriors dreading the assault.
When “numbers” mathematically chime
Their voices sound to me no more sublime
Than bones an earthquake rattles in a vault.

But there is music when the full heart sings
The murmurous intimations of the dawn
Where virgin peaks flush in the twilit blue;
And melody mounts up on moth-like wings
When I have passed, upon your shadowy lawn,
A night of glory with the thought of you.