Who that hath ever shot a shaft at heaven
Whether of wonder, praise or humble prayer,
But hath not straight received his answer given,
And been made strong with comforting, aware
Of strength and beauty for his purpose meant,
Whether it were a lark’s song or a scent
That wanders on the quavering paths of the air?
The sweetest of all birds, that fed my slumber
With music through the thought-exalting night,
Among forgotten fancies without number