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The Spirit of Poetry.
O strange and subtle soul of Poetry
Of what ethereal essence art thou made'?
Where garnered? Where distilled? In some quaint glade
Ahaunt with elfin eyes art wont to be?
Or, like a pearl in thought's unfathomed sea
Art thou embedded? Wherefore dost evade
With coy reluctance like a timid maid
Our eager and impassioned quest for thee?
Oh! fainter than the fall of fairy feet,
Oh! deeper than the wave's world-echoing roll,
More exquisite, miraculous, divine,
Than fragrance in a flower, or the fleet
Aroma of a dream, thou art a soul
Within the soul's imperishable shrine.
Of what ethereal essence art thou made'?
Where garnered? Where distilled? In some quaint glade
Ahaunt with elfin eyes art wont to be?
Or, like a pearl in thought's unfathomed sea
Art thou embedded? Wherefore dost evade
With coy reluctance like a timid maid
Our eager and impassioned quest for thee?
Oh! fainter than the fall of fairy feet,
Oh! deeper than the wave's world-echoing roll,
More exquisite, miraculous, divine,
Than fragrance in a flower, or the fleet
Aroma of a dream, thou art a soul
Within the soul's imperishable shrine.
