Of poets, who made music at my touch
As Memnon at the morning’s, of old kings
Grave with their wisdom, and young warriors
Whose wisdom was the lightness of their hearts;
These haunt my solitude, and pay me court,
Nor heed misfortune: but of all this state
Only one face is there which fills my soul
With some strong healing effluence, a grace
Of twilight reveries when all things seem
Merged in the peace of God, and we become