Our sweetest songs tell of saddest thought that

Feeds on the rarities of nature’s truth.

Earth fills her lap with pleasures of her own

Nor cares to understand about my art

Gilding the object whereupon it gazes

Like the waves towards the pebbled shore, but

I believe in those winged purposes.

Shall I at least set my dreams in order?

How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Now, do you doubt that your Bird was true?

Edit and annotate the lines to comprehend a nectar

The Royal Air — of the Heavenly Grace —

Reel shadows of the indignant desert birds

Of supernatural sympathy, universal love and hope,

Kissing with golden face the meadows green,

Of the wide world dreaming on things to come.

Now, the bird thus sings a joyous song

And justifies the ways of God to men.

Upon a great adventure you are bond.

Not by rude force, but with sweetest sovereignty

In sequent toil all forwards do contend.

Voyage on gentle gales from Fairy-Land

Enjoyed by us excites everyone’s envy more.

Roses have thorns, and silver fountains mud.

So, let me be thy choir, and make a moan.

I am a part of all that I have met.

The world should listen then — as I am listening now.

Your business is to paint the souls of men.

Beauty is truth, truth beauty — that is all —

As I avowed at starting, is my object.

Now is a time for carving the illustration

Gaily, when invited, beating obedient to controlling hands.

Lozenge of love! Medallion of art!

A last attempt: the language is a dialect called metaphor.

Divine you are inside and out, and you make holy whatever you touch —

Envy and calumny and hate and pain.

Swiftly rise and spread around us the peace and knowledge that pass all argument of the earth.

Hope is the thing with feathers that perches in the soul.