Mine breast dost pluck its strings to the song
that shall ne'er be sung.
On lofty clouds white-lined with ill portent beneath
its skin by wings I soar by fortune cruel.
Hither hence forth they melt greyly, upon my lofty perch.
Damp o'erflow that fortunate melody with everlasting rain.
Tis thine still foot firm abreast soft soil wilst those
tender notes of lonesome solitude.