“Close work thus,” he said;
“And all the measures of your verse may show
How sweet can be the echoes waked anon
By labor’s ringing anvil.”
“Nay,” I sigh’d.
“Such work would bring too much of sleep,—no dreams.
When born with souls like harps the Muse would play,
What better can men do than toil to keep
Their thoughts and feelings close in tune with truth?
For this will tax them wholly. They, who try,