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 sunlight 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?