Tottering above II. In her highest noon, The enamoured moon While, to listen, the red levin Pauses in Heaven. III. And they say (the starry choir, And the other listening things) That Israfeli's fire Is owing to that lyre By which he sits and sings,— The trembling living wire Of those unusual strings. IV. But the skies that angel trod, Where deep thoughts are a duty-- Where Love's a grown-up god Where the Houri glances are Imbued with all the beauty Which we worship in a star. F V. Therefore, thou art not wrong, An unimpassioned song; To thee the laurels belong, Best bard, because the wisest ! Merrily live, and long! VI. The ecstasies above With thy burning measures suit; Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love, With the fervour of thy lute: Well may the stars be mute! VII. Yes, Heaven is thine; but this Is the sunshine of ours. If I could dwell Where Israfel VIII. Hath dwelt, and he where I, He might not sing so wildly well A mortal melody, While a bolder note than this might swell From my lyre within the sky. ΤΟ I HEED not that my earthly lot IV. The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbing At heart-ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing! V. The sickness, the nausea, The pitiless pain, Have ceased, with the fever That maddened my brain With the fever called "Living" That burned in my brain. |