What feeble and unhappy bards are we,
Who trace our lines with over-cunning hand
Upon a narrow strip of seashore sand,
Washed over night by strong floods of the sea!
We look at length and wonder where they be:
They vanish, and we do not understand;
Not though we muse the verse divinely grand
Of him whose natural breath was poetry,—
Shakespeare the happy. He with fearless art
Sang all his deep heart forth, his lovely name
Is graved forever on the human heart.
Our day is gracious, but our love is tame;
We shrink from pa**ion's face, and strive apart
To kindle with cool thought the Muse's flame.