But my blood chills—poor thing, it cannot find
Air it may breathe—where soars aloft sheer Mind.
Yet why lament that the Seer’s part is not
For me, when mine the sweet, if humbler, lot—
To light and feed a poet’s holy fire;
Rapt from myself to feel a God inspire
The visions that I see, the words I pen—
The message that I bring my fellow men—
Bound, if the Muse decrees, to soar away
Where rolls Spercheios, or girls dance and play