All dreams so fond, all faith so fair,

To make men better than they are.

Nor gold have I, nor gear, nor fame,

Station, or rank, or honoured name,

Here like a kennelled cur I lie!

Therefore the magic art I’ll try,

From spirit’s might and mouth to draw,

Mayhap, some key to Nature’s law;

That I no more, with solemn show,

May sweat to teach what I do not know;

That I may ken the bond that holds

The world, through all its mystic folds;

The hidden seeds of things explore,

And cheat my thought with words no more.

O might thou shine, thou full moon bright,

For the last time upon my woes,

Thou whom, by this brown desk alone,

So oft my wakeful eyne have known.

Then over books and paper rose

On me thy sad familiar light!

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