Dare I profane the wreath, and with blind aim
Snatch from the cunning gods who hold above
The heads of men the laurel few may love,
Since it requires a heart, and without shame
Feel its rich coolness temper all my brows?
Then sing, unwitting that I held a lyre
That echo'd only to the baser fire
Which some stray chance to meaner strings allows;
And glowing with false hope, I strove to reach
A point of higher strength, but fell, and found
That in my own deep weakness I was bound,
Like one whom utter fear deprives of speech.
And in my shame I flung the wreath away,
To sing at night but never in the day.