To Drift With Every Passion Till My Soul Is A Stringed Lute On Which Can Winds Can Play, Is It For This That I Have Given Away Mine Ancient Wisdom And Austere Control? Methinks My Life Is A Twice-Written Scroll Scrawled Over On Some Boyish Holiday With Idle Songs For Pipe And Virelay, Which Do But Mar The Secret Of The Whole. Surely There Was A Time I Might Have Trod The Sunlit Heights, And From Life'S Dissonance Struck One Clear Chord To Reach The Ears Of God: Is That Time Dead? Lo! With A Little Rod I Did But Touch The Honey Of Romance - And Must I Lose A Soul'S Inheritance?