From thy dead lips a clearer note is born
Than ever Triton blew from wreathéd horn!
While on my ear it rings
Through the deep caves of thought I hear a voice that sings,
“Build thee more noble mansions, O my soul.
As the swift seasons roll:
Leave thy low-vaulted past!
Let each new temple, nobler than the last,
Shut thee from heaven with a dome more vast,
Till thou at length art free,