Whilst the greatest effort has been made to ensure the quality of this text, due to the historical nature of this content, in some rare cases there may be minor issues with legibility. To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play; Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient Wisdom, and austere control? Methinks my life is a twice written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe or virelay Which do but mar the secret of the whole. Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life’s dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: Is that time dead? Lo with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance And must I lose a soul’s inheritance?
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