Invoke thy aid to my adventurous song,
That with no middle flight intends to soar
Above th’ Aonian mount, while it pursues
Things unattempted yet, in prose or rhyme.
And chiefly Thou, O Spirit, that dost prefer
Before all temples, th’ upright heart and pure,
Instruct me, for Thou know’st: Thou, from the first
Wast present, and, with mighty wings outspread,
Dove-like sat’st brooding on the vast abyss,
And mad’st it pregnant. What in me is dark