Richard E. Burton - The Poet lyrics

He's not alone an artist weak and white, O'erbending scented paper toying there With languid fancies, fashioned deft and fair, Mere sops to time between the day and night. He is a poor torn soul who sees aright How far he fails of living out the rare Night-visions God vouchsafes along the air, Until the pain burns hot, beyond his might. The heart-beat of the universal will He hears, and, spite of blindness and disproof, Can sense amidst the jar a singing fine. Grief-smitten that his lyre should lack the sk** To speak it plain, he plays in paths aloof, And knows the trend is starward, life divine.