IV

Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,

Most gracious singer of high poems ! where

The dancers will break footing, from the care

Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.

And dost thou lift this houses latch too poor

For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear

To let thy music drop here unaware

In folds of golden fulness at my door ?

Look up and see the casement broken in,

The bats and owlets builders in the roof !

My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.

Hush, call no echo up in further proof

Of desolation ! there s a voice within

That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof

Elizabeth Barrett Browning

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