To the East with praise he turned,
And on his sight the angel burned.
“I bore thee from thy craftsman’s cell,
“And set thee here; I did not well.
“Vainly I left my angel-sphere,
“Vain was thy dream of many a year.
“Thy voice’s praise seemed weak; it dropped—
“Creation’s chorus stopped!
“Go back and praise again
“The early way, while I remain.