Of the soul’s wealth, all that he had,
And then, perchance, went music-mad,
And died at last of joy; so glad
That he had found thee.
Was he some Smithy, grim and old,
Whose anvil iron changed to gold,
And, forging thee, turned he to mould,
O’erpowered with glory?
Alas! such fate doth quick befall
Spirits too ripe for earthly thrall;