I would not owe to pitying tenderness The joy with which thy presence lights my life. Thou shalt still love all that is thine, dear friend, In my true soul—all that is right and great; And that I still love thee, so proudly, purely— That shall be joy enough! Go calmly forth. —— Would I were any thing that thou dost love— A flower, a shell, a wavelet, or a cloud— Aught that might win a moment’s soul-look from thee. To be “a joy forever” in thy heart, That were in truth divinest joy to mine: A low, sweet, haunting Tune, that will not let Thy memory go, but fondly twines around it, Pleading and beautiful—for unto thee Music is life—such life as I would be; A Statue, wrought in marble, without stain, Where one immortal truth embodied lives Instinct with grace and loveliness; a Fane, A fair Ionic temple, growing up, Light as a lily into the blue air, To the glad melody of a tuneful thought In its creator’s spirit, where thy gaze Might never weary—dedicate to thee, Thy image shrined within it, lone and loved; _Make_ me the Flower thou lovest; let me drink Thy rays, and give them back in bloom and beauty; Mould me to grace, to glory, like the Statue; Wake for my mind the Music of thine own, And it shall grow, to that majestic tune, A temple meet to shrine mine idol in; Hold the frail shell, tinted by love’s pure blush, Unto thy _soul_, and thou shalt hear within Tones from its spirit-home; smile on the wave, And it shall flow, free, limpid, glad, forever; Shed on the cloud the splendor of thy being, And it shall float—a radiant wonder—by thee! To love—_thy_ love—so docile I would be, So pliant, yet inspired, that it should make A marvel of me, for thy sake, and show Its proud _chef d’œuvre_ in my harmonious life. —— I would be judged by that great heart of thine, Wherein a voice more genuine, more divine Than world-taught Reason, fondly speaks for me, And bids thee love and trust, through cloud and shine, The frail and fragile creature who would be Naught here—hereafter—if not _all_ to thee! Thou call’st me changeful as the summer cloud, And wayward as a wave, and light as air. And I am all thou sayest—all, and worse; But the wild cloud can weep, as well as lighten, And the wave mirrors heaven, as my soul thee; And the light air, that frolicks without thought O’er yonder harp, makes music as it goes. Let _me_ play on the soul-harp I love best, And teach it all its dreaming melody; That is my mission; I have nothing else, In all the world, to do. And I shall go Musicless, aimless, idle, through all life, Unless I play my part there—only there. In the full anthem which the universe Intones to heaven, my heart will have no share,