To be as organ notes sublime,
Full-throated flowing words of rhyme,
Whose like no mortal eye hath read.
Then would I kneel before the God
Whose matchless genius made the earth;
The Poet-God, who sows the hours
With all the scented hosts of flowers,
Who gives the little winds their birth,
Who doth unloose the sea-song’s might
To shake the very stars at night,