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Give me a golden pen, and let me lean |
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On heaped-up flowers, in regions clear, and far; |
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Bring me a tablet whiter than a star, |
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Or hand of hymning angel, when 'tis seen |
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The silver strings of heavenly harp atween: |
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And let there glide by many a pearly car |
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Pink robes, and wavy hair, and diamond jar, |
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And half-discovered wings, and glances keen. |
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The while let music wander round my ears, |
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And as it reaches each delicious ending, |
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Let me write down a line of glorious tone, |
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And full of many wonders of the spheres: |
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For what a height my spirit is contending! |
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'Tis not content so soon to be alone. |
