YET what were love, and what were toil and thought,
And what were life, bereft of Poesy?
Who lingers in a garden where the bee
By no rich beds of fragrant flowers is caught —
A homely vegetable patch where naught
Is prized but for some table-caterer's fee,
And Nature pledged to market-ministry?
To me another lore was early taught;
And rather would I lose the dear delights
Of eye and ear, than wilfully forego
The power that can transfigure sounds and sights,
Can steep the world in symbols, and bestow
The free admittance to all depths and heights,
And make dull earth a heaven of thought below.