And when the solemn Night
Came rushing with her might
Of stormy oracles from caves unknown,
Then with each fitful blast
Prophetic murmurs pass'd,
Wakening or answering some deep Sybil tone,
Far buried in my breast, yet prompt to rise
With every gusty wail that o'er the wind-harp flies.
"Fold, fold thy wings," they cried, "and strive no more,
Faint spirit, strive no more!—for thee too strong
Are outward ill and wrong,
And inward wasting fires!—Thou canst not soar
Free on a starry way
Beyond their blighting sway,
At Heaven's high gate serenely to adore!
How shouldst thou hope Earth's fetters to unbind?
O passionate, yet weak! O trembler to the wind!
"Never shall aught but broken music flow
From joy of thine, deep love, or tearful woe;
