t to some palace-floor,
Most gracious singer of high poems ! where
ting, from the care
Of c lips for more.
And dost t tcoo poor
For think and bear
to let thy music drop here unaware
In folds of golden fulness at my door ?
Look up and see t broken in,
ts and os builders in the roof !
My cricket c thy mandolin.
her proof
Of desolation ! thin
t sing . . . alone, aloof