[After a pause.]
What countless paths wind down, from divers points,
To yonder city gates!--Oh, wilt not thou,
My star, appear to me on one of them?
Whate'er I said,--thou art my worshiped sun.
Then pardon me;--thou art not cold; oh, no!
Too warm, too glowing warm, art thou for me.
Yet thus it is! Thy being's music has
A thousand chords with thousand varying tones,
Whilst I but one poor sound can offer thee