Not of desire alone is music born, 
Not till the Muse wills is our passion crowned; 
Unsought she comes; if sought, but seldom found, 
Repaying thus our longing with her scorn. 
Hence is it poets often are forlorn, 
In super-subtle chains of silence bound, 
And mid the crowds that compass them around 
Still dwell in isolation night and morn, 
With knitted brow and cheek all passion-pale 
Showing the baffled purpose of the mind. 
Hence is it I, that find no prayers avail 
To move my Lyric mistress to be kind, 
Have stolen away into this leafy dale 
Drawn by the flutings of the silvery wind.