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 and virelay 
Which do but mar the secret of the whole. 
Surely that 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?