Thou Poetess! that harpest to the moon,
And, in soft concert to the silver tune,
Of waters play’d on by the magic wind,
As he comes streaming, with his hair untwined,
Dost sing light strains of melody and mirth,—
I hear thee, hymning on thy holy birth,
How thou wert moulded of thy mother Love,
That came, like seraph, from the stars above.
And was so sadly wedded unto Sin,
That thou wert born, and Sorrow was thy twin.