ness at my door ?

    Look up and see t broken in,

    ts and os builders in the roof !

    My cricket c thy mandolin.

    her proof

    Of desolation ! thin

    t  sing . . . alone, aloof

    t to some palace-floor,

    Most gracious singer of high poems! where

    ting, from the care

    Of c lips for more.

    And dost t tcoo poor

    For  think and bear

    to let thy music drip here unaware

    In folds of golden fulness at my door?

    Look up and see t broken in,

    ts and os builders in the roof!

    My cricket c thy mandolin.

    her proof

    Of desolation! thin

    t  sing...alone, aloof.

    I lift my  up solemnly,

    As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

    And, looking in turn

    t t. Behold and see

    a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

    And he red wild sparkles dimly burn

    t in scorn

    Could tread t to darkness utterly,

    It mig if instead

    t beside me for to blow

    t up, . . . thine head,

    O my Beloved,  shee so,

    t none of all the fires shall scorch and shred

    tand farthen ! go.

    I lift my  up solemnly,

    As once Electra her sepulchral urn,

    And, looking in turn

    t t. Behold and see

    a great heap of grief lay hid in me,

    And he red wild sparkles dimly burn

    t in scorn

    Could tread t to darkness utterly,

    It mig if instead

    t beside me for to blow

    t up,...thine head,