Israfel

    "Whose heart-strings are a lute"；

    None sing so wildly well

    As the angel Israfel

    And the giddy stars （so legends tell）

    Ceasing their hymns attend the spell

    Of his voice all mute.

    Tottering above

    In her highest noon

    The enamored moon

    Blushes with love

    While to listen the red levin

    （With the rapid Pleiads even

    Which were seven ）

    Pauses in Heaven.

    And they say （the starry choir

    And the other listening things）

    That Israfeli's fire

    Is owing to that lyre

    By which he sits and sings-

    The trembling living wire

    Of those unusual strings.

    But the skies that angel trod

    Where deep thoughts are a duty-

    Where Love's a grown-up God-

    Where the Houri glances are

    Imbued with all the beauty

    Which we worship in a star.

    Therefore thou art not wrong

    Israfeli who despisest

    An unimpassioned song；

    To thee the laurels belong

    Best bard because the wisest！

    Merrily live and long！

    The ecstasies above

    With thy burning measures suit-

    Thy grief thy joy thy hate thy love

    With the fervor of thy lute-

    Well may the stars be mute！

    Yes Heaven is thine； but this

    Is a world of sweets and sours；

    Our flowers are merely- flowers

    And the shadow of thy perfect bliss

    Is the sunshine of ours.

    If I could dwell

    Where Israfel

    Hath dwelt and he where I

    He might not sing so wildly well

    A mortal melody

    While a bolder note than this might swell

    From my lyre within the sky.