He Who Saddens At Thought Of Idleness

He Ne'er Is Crowned With Immortality Who Fears To Follow Where Airy Voices Lead.

My Spirit Is Too Weak--mortality Weighs Heavily On Me Like Unwilling Sleep, And Each Imagin'd Pinnacle And Steep Of Godlike Hardship Tells Me I Must Die Like A Sick Eagle Looking At The Sky.

I Will Imagine You Venus Tonight And Pray, Pray, Pray To Your Star Like A Heathen.

Or Thou Might'st Better Listen To The Wind, Whose Language Is To Thee A Barren Noise, Though It Blows Legend-laden Through The Trees.

O For The Gentleness Of Old Romance, The Simple Planning Of A Minstrel's Song!