Was Shelley’s song, while Keats could never sing
Without more warmth and depth of coloring:
But Chopin soars unshackled, truly free,
For music is a higher poetry,
Not bound by clumsy words, so it may wing
Its way through groves celestial or cling
To the warm couch of wine and revelry.
I hear the sea wind crooning; far below
The cold stars shiver on the ocean floor.
What nation is that rising ’gainst the foe