Yea all sad souls that have smiled and sinned and sung,
With whose gold-colored hairs and hoar this harp is strung.
And blame of the high great gods that do amiss,
Being cruel and crowned and bathed complete in bliss,
And careless if this world be out of tune,
And deaf to dithyrambs of bards that bay the moon:
And all perfections of all those I love,
Each bettering still the best and still above
The last this violent voice proclaimed the best,
And blown by stormy breath still starward o’er the rest;