You bid me write, and yet propose no theme.
Must I then shoot my shafts of poesy
At the vast, void, invulnerable air?
Or lead my Pegasus a steeple-hunting?
Or issue forth with chiming hue and cry,
With trampling feet of thorough-paced blank verse
And winding horn of long-drawn melody
In chace of butterflies ? Or shall I rather,
In gentler figure, make believe to hang
My careless harp upon a willow tree,
That every gale may prattle with its strings ?
'Tis strange that any bard should lack a theme
In such a world of wonders. Look abroad,
Around you, and above you, and within
The stars of heaven (as elder sages told).
Roll on from age to age their lonely way
To their own music. So the humbler spirit
Hears in the daily round of household things
A low sweet melody, inaudible
To the gross sense of worldlings.-Aye, I grant
That earth and sky are cunning instruments ;