IV

    t to some palace-floor,

    Most gracious singer of high poems ! where

    ting, from the care

    Of c lips for more.

    And dost t tcoo poor

    For  think and bear

    to let thy music drop here unaware

    In folds of golden fulness at my door ?

    Look up and see t broken in,

    ts and os builders in the roof !

    My cricket c thy mandolin.

    her proof

    Of desolation ! thin

    t  sing . . . alone, aloof