And lost his eyes to find a deeper sight.

Come, let us sit in that deep silence then,
Launched on love's rapids, with our passions proud
That makes all music hollow--though the lark
Raves in his windy heights above a cloud.



ON HEARING MRS. WOODHOUSE PLAY THE HARPSICHORD

We poets pride ourselves on what
We feel, and not what we achieve;
The world may call our children fools,
Enough for us that we conceive.
A little wren that loves the grass
Can be as proud as any lark
That tumbles in a cloudless sky,
Up near the sun, till he becomes
The apple of that shining eye.

So, lady, I would never dare
To hear your music ev'ry day;
With those great bursts that send my nerves
In waves to pound my heart away;
And those small notes that run like mice
Bewitched by light; else on those keys--
My tombs of song--you should engrave:
'My music, stronger than his own,
Has made this poet my dumb slave.'