I Broke The Spell That Held Me Long, The Dear, Dear Witchery Of Song. I Said, The Poet'S Idle Lore Shall Waste My Prime Of Years No More, For Poetry, Though Heavenly Born, Consorts With Poverty And Scorn. I Broke The Spell, Nor Deemed Its Power Could Fetter Me Another Hour. Ah, Thoughtless! How Could I Forget Its Causes Were Around Me Yet? For Wheresoe'Er I Looked, The While, Was Nature'S Everlasting Smile. Still Came And Lingered On My Sight Of Flowers And Streams The Bloom And Light, And Glory Of The Stars And Sun; And These And Poetry Are One. They, Ere The World Had Held Me Long, Recalled Me To The Love Of Song.