To drift with every passion till my soul Is a stringed lute on which all winds can play; Is it for this that I have given away Mine ancient Wisdom, and austere control? Methinks my life is a twice written scroll Scrawled over on some boyish holiday With idle songs for pipe or virelay Which do but mar the secret of the whole. Surely there was a time I might have trod The sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance Struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: Is that time dead? Lo with a little rod I did but touch the honey of romance And must I lose a soul's inheritance?