Fulness of power lives not with those who roam,

Dandling the toy of a fantastic grief,

Iconoclast of woe, it builds its home

In joy’s ebullience at its own relief;

Youth founds the pile where age contented dwells,

And drowns his dearth with draughts from childhood’s wells.

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XIV.

A young Apollo flush’d with love and beauty,

The world shall wonder owning thy command;

Now, the boy Eros, scorning rugged duty,

And mocking forms poor custom’s sole demand:

His archness blended with his sprightly grace,

His glance of love and fitfulness and sport,

His human godhead and heaven-moulded face;

These all are mingled in thy witching port:

And, more than these, the eloquence of thy look,

The energy whose fire informs thy frame;

Well might man read thee as the favourite book,

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