MY THEME.
Ofme and of my theme think what thou wilt:The song of gladness one straight bolt can check.But I have never stood at Fortune’s beck:Were she and her light crew to run atiltAt my poor holding little would be spilt;Small were the praise for singing o’er that wreck.Who courts her dooms to strife his bended neck;He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt.Nathless she strikes at random, can be fellWith other than those votaries she dealsThe black or brilliant from her thunder-rift.I say but that this love of Earth revealsA soul beside our own to quicken, quell,Irradiate, and through ruinous floods uplift.
Ofme and of my theme think what thou wilt:The song of gladness one straight bolt can check.But I have never stood at Fortune’s beck:Were she and her light crew to run atiltAt my poor holding little would be spilt;Small were the praise for singing o’er that wreck.Who courts her dooms to strife his bended neck;He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt.Nathless she strikes at random, can be fellWith other than those votaries she dealsThe black or brilliant from her thunder-rift.I say but that this love of Earth revealsA soul beside our own to quicken, quell,Irradiate, and through ruinous floods uplift.
Ofme and of my theme think what thou wilt:The song of gladness one straight bolt can check.But I have never stood at Fortune’s beck:Were she and her light crew to run atiltAt my poor holding little would be spilt;Small were the praise for singing o’er that wreck.Who courts her dooms to strife his bended neck;He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt.Nathless she strikes at random, can be fellWith other than those votaries she dealsThe black or brilliant from her thunder-rift.I say but that this love of Earth revealsA soul beside our own to quicken, quell,Irradiate, and through ruinous floods uplift.
Ofme and of my theme think what thou wilt:
The song of gladness one straight bolt can check.
But I have never stood at Fortune’s beck:
Were she and her light crew to run atilt
At my poor holding little would be spilt;
Small were the praise for singing o’er that wreck.
Who courts her dooms to strife his bended neck;
He grasps a blade, not always by the hilt.
Nathless she strikes at random, can be fell
With other than those votaries she deals
The black or brilliant from her thunder-rift.
I say but that this love of Earth reveals
A soul beside our own to quicken, quell,
Irradiate, and through ruinous floods uplift.