Chapter 9 TO THE SPIRIT OF KEATS

Great soul, thou sittest with me in my room,

Uplifting me with thy vast, quiet eyes,

On whose full orbs, with kindly lustre, lies

The twilight warmth of ruddy ember-gloom:

Thy clear, strong tones will oft bring sudden bloom

Of hope secure, to him who lonely cries,

Wrestling with the young poet's agonies,

Neglect and scorn, which seem a certain doom:

Yes! the few words which, like great thunder-drops,

Thy large heart down to earth shook doubtfully,

Thrilled by the inward lightning of its might,

Serene and pure, like gushing joy of light,

Shall track the eternal chords of Destiny,

After the moon-led pulse of ocean stops.