Chief of organic numbers!
  Old scholar of the spheres!
  Thy spirit never slumbers,
  But rolls about our ears
  For ever, and for ever:
  O, what a mad endeavour
  Worketh he,
Who, to thy sacred and ennobled hearse,
Would offer a burnt sacrifice of verse
  And melody.

  How heavenward thou soundedst,
  Live temple of sweet noise;
  And discord unconfoundedst, –
  Giving delight new joys,
  And pleasure nobler pinions –
  O, where are thy dominions?
  Lend thine ear,
To a young Delian oath – aye, by thy soul,
By all that from thy mortal lips did roll;
And by the kernel of thine earthly love,
Beauty, in things on earth and things above;
  When every childish fashion
  Has vanish’d from my rhyme,
  Will I, grey-gone in passion,
  Leave to an after time
  Hymning and harmony
Of thee, and of thy works, and of thy life;
But vain is now the burning, and the strife,
Pangs are in vain – until I grow high-rife
  With old philosophy;
And mad with glimpses at futurity!

For many years my offerings must be hush’d.
  When I do speak, I’ll think upon this hour,
Because I feel my forehead hot and flush’d –
  Even at the simplest vassal of thy power;
  A lock of thy bright hair –
  Sudden it came,
And I was startled, when I caught thy name
  Coupled so unaware;
Yet at the moment, temperate was my blood –
Methought I had beheld it from the Flood.