Dividing my horizon many times
But leaving every wind an open gate.
. . . . . . . . . . . . . . .
There is a sorcery in well loved words:
But unintelligible music still
Probes to the buried Titan in the heart
Whose strength, the vastness of forgotten life,
Suffers but is not dead;
Tune stirs him as no thought of ours nor aught