They came to me in my first dawn of life Which passed alone with wisest ancient books All halo-girt with fancies of my own; And I myself went with the tale--a god Wandering after beauty, or a giant Standing vast in the sunset--an old hunter Talking with gods, or a high-crested chief Sailing with troops of friends to Tenedos. I tell you, naught has ever been so clear As the place, the time, the fashion of those lives: I had not seen a work of lofty art, Nor woman's beauty nor sweet nature's face, Yet, I say, never morn broke clear as those On the dim clustered isles in the blue sea, The deep groves and white temples and wet caves: And nothing ever will surprise me now-- Who stood beside the naked Swift-footed, Who bound my forehead with Proserpine's hair. And strange it is that I who could so dream Should e'er have stooped to aim at aught beneath-- Aught low or painful; but I never doubted: So, as I grew, I rudely shaped my life To my immediate wants; yet strong beneath Was a vague sense of power though folded up-- A sense that, though those shades and times were past, Their spirit dwelt in me, with them should rule. Then came a pause, and long restraint chained down My soul till it was changed. I lost myself, And were it not that I so loathe that loss, I could recall how first I learned to turn My mind against itself; and the effects In deeds for which remorse were vain as for The wanderings of delirious dream; yet thence Came cunning, envy, falsehood, all world's wrong That spotted me: at length I cleansed my soul. Yet long world's influence remained; and naught But the still life I led, apart once more, Which left me free to seek soul's old delights, Could e'er have brought me thus far back to peace. As peace returned, I sought out some pursuit; And song rose, no new impulse but the one With which all others best could be combined. My life has not been that of those whose heaven Was lampless save where poesy shone out; But as a clime where glittering mountain-tops And glancing sea and forests steeped in light Give back reflected the far-flashing sun; For music (which is earnest of a heaven, Seeing we know emotions strange by it, Not else to be revealed,) is like a voice, A low voice calling fancy, as a friend, To the green woods in the gay summer time: And she fills all the way with dancing shapes Which have made painters pale, and they go on Till stars look at them and winds call to them As they leave life's path for the twilight world Where the dead gather. This was not at first, For I scarce knew what I would do. I had An impulse but no yearning--only sang.