Often have I sighed to measure By myself a lonely pleasure,- Sighed to think I read a book, Only read, perhaps, by me.

And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

Type of the wise who soar but never roam, True to the kindred points of heaven and home.

Never to blend our pleasure or our pride With sorrow of the meanest thing that feels.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

Nuns fret not at their convent's narrow room; And hermits are contented with their cells.

Monastic brotherhood, upon rock Aerial.