Make ends meet

Oh of the motley throng speak not before me, At whose aspect the Spirit

wings its flight! Conceal the surging concourse, I implore thee, Whose vortex

draws us with resistless might. No, to some peaceful heavenly nook restore

me, Where only for the bard blooms pure delight, Where love and friendship

yield their choicest blessing, Our heart's true bliss, with god - like hand

What in the spirit's depths was there created, What shyly there the lip shaped

forth in sound; A failure now, with words now fitly mated, In the wild tumult

of the hour is drown'd; Full oft the poet's thought for years hath waited Until