Of bodiless passion, or light tinkling mirth?
But the true god-gift grows. Sweet, sweet, still sweet
As great Apollo's lyre, or Pan's plain reed,
His music flowed, but slowly he out-beat
His song to finer issues. Fingers fleet,
That trifled with the pipe-stops, shook grand sound
From the great organ's golden mouths anon.
A mellow-measured might, a beauty bound
(As Venus with her zone)
By that which shaped from chaos Earth, Air, Sky,