My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes
God set between His After and Before,
And strike up and strike off the general roar
Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats
In a serene air purely. Antidotes
Of medicated music, answering for
Mankind’ s forlornest uses, thou canst pour
From thence into their ears. God’ s will devotes
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?
A hope, to sing by gladly? Or a fine
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?
A shade, in which to singof palm or pine?
A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.