What do thee tell me, lord from all the archaic creations of yore? Which remain afresh with time not fade away, in rhyme, The arching heap which binds my gaze, the swooning speck which sweeps my pace, the flowing frill which I get to drench and the cooling breeze which touches my soul Are all your children the thousands you behold, here to put me on hold? The blinding shine that makes me daze the rooted spine which calls my gaze The twitter that eases my groove the shingles that make up my roof Are they all true to extend a hand to help me cling to my gossamer? As I drench in the pleasures of your shore Topple down into the tides of bond Sail onto the miseries that rave, I beseech you to pour down harmony, not pleasure, to distract me away from the daze, not bind me into bond, to shower down the light, not confine me to a shade, to enlighten my soul, not to tie it to things that foul.