That the enthusiast heart forgets the world,
Its strifes, and follies—and seeks only here
To satisfy its thirst for happiness.
IV.
Thought I was on an island—the brightest thing ever dancing in a poet’s vision, a perfect Eden-spot, an Elysium—
Ye of the pure heart, come to me!
List to a tale of Poesy;
List—for, for it, ye may better be—
So scorn not the minstrel’s minstrelsy.
Ye with a brow like the broken wave’s drift,