As the blind Milton's memory of light, The deaf Beethoven's phantasy of tone, Wroght joys for them surpa**ing all things known In our restricted sphere of sound and sight,-- So while the glaring streets of brick and stone Vix with heat, noise, and dust from morn till night, I will give rein to Fancy, taking flight From dismal now and here, and dwell alone With new-enfranchised senses. All day long, Think ye 't is I, who sit 'twixt darkened walls, While ye chase beauty over land and sea? Uplift on wings of some rare poet's song Where the wide billow laughs and leaps and falls, I soar cloud-high, free as the winds are free.