Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.
The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.