And life, and love, and madness, and the glow
Of mine own soul which burns into my flesh.
XVI.
It was the Lord of music, it was he
Who seiz'd my hand. He forc'd me, as I play'd,
To think of that ill-fated fairy-glade
Where once we stroll'd at night; and wild and free
My notes did ring; and quickly unto me
There came the joy that maketh us afraid.
XVII.