And poetry grows tired, and romance pale?
I cannot think it; for the soul of man
Is strung to answer to such myriad keys
Set and attuned and chorded on a plan
Of intricate and vibrant harmonies,
How shall we limit that, or measure these?
As free and urgent as the air that moves,
As quick to tremble as Æolian strings,
The soul responds and thrills to hates and loves,
Desires and hopes, and joys and sufferings,