SHALL I not falter on melodious wing, In that my notes are weak and may not rise To those world-wide entrancing harmonies, Which the great poets to the ages sing? Shall my thought's humble heaven no longer ring With pleasant lays, because the empyreal height Stretches beyond it, lifting to the light The anointed pinion of song's radiant king? Ah! a false thought! the thrush her fitful flight Ventures in vernal dawns; a happy note Trills from the russet linnet's gentle throat, Though far above the eagle soars in might, And the glad skylark -- an ethereal mote -- Sings in high realms that mock our straining sight. |