 | The Finding of The Book and Other Poems |  |
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In our tongue's youth something he strongly wrought
In our tongue's youth something he strongly wrought
With the intrícacies of the octave rhyme.
Sweetness was his, and awe, a manifold chime
Of church-bells, and a wealth of sacred thought.
Years fail'd him, and his purpose came to nought.
The silver measure chosen in his prime
Died with him; and thereafter tide and time
Pass'd, and none else its difficult beauty sought.
Then Byron made it classical for sin—
Sin's wild wit and theatrical despair,
Its passionate rapture and hysteric woe.
When shall Heav'n raise a poet wise to win
That various melody for itself, and so
Make our song richer by one sacred air?
| The Finding of The Book and Other Poems | |