Is beauty? Oh, from rung to rung to climb,
Till faint becomes the azure's anthem chime
Of planets, multitudinous, or lone,
And Inspiration, drunk with fragrance, blown
From God's rare, inmost garden, wall'd from Time,
Sets free the Sonnet with is wings of rhyme
To carry down the transport, upward known!
Mine is no swaying ladder, like he sea's,
Whose rounds of rollers, raised above Sun-rise,
Lean not on Heaven, hence shattered lie at noon;