And bright true Lady! all the poet's lays.
X.
To thee, to thee, the songs of all my joy,
To thee the songs that wildly seem to bless,
And those that mind thee of a past caress.
Lo! with a whisper to the Wingèd Boy
Who rules my fate, I will my strength employ
To make a matin-song of my distress.
XI.
But playing thus, and toying with the notes,