to drift with every passion till my soul is a stringed lute on which all winds can play, is it for this that i have given away mine ancient wisdom, and austere control? methinks my life is a twice-written scroll scrawled over on some boyish holiday with idle songs for pipe and virelay, which do but mar the secret of the whole. surely there was a time i might have trod the sunlit heights, and from life's dissonance struck one clear chord to reach the ears of God: is that time dead? lo! with a little rod i did but touch the honey of romance- and must i lose a soul's inheritance?