If I may break my spirit's icy spell,
And free once more the frost-bound stream of song,
To thee, beloved Wife, will first belong
The praise and the reward; for thou canst tell
Whose gentle efforts made my bosom swell
Once more with love of verse extinct so long;
Who first evoked me with enticement strong,
And pleasant bribes, from the deep silent cell
Of mental idlenesse: the next place to thee
In this poor praise holds that dear friend by right,
Who sheds upon our path so rich a light
Of cheering love and tenderest sympathy.
High above both, my song's sole Lord, is He,
Its Origin and End -- the Infinite.