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to be gathered in a book Of golden song, to occupy its nook In a collection not unworthily, An ode, a sonnet, or an elegy— This was and is my day-dream. Oh for power To generate a marvel, like a flower Delicate; polished, damascened with gold And rich enamelled, like a sword-hilt old! No monument ambitious would I raise, Pyramid or palace that would fix the gaze, Or pompous column towering to the skies, But a mere atom, nothing in its size, Yet a creation, wonderful; sublime By its perfection; a short magic rhyme; A work of patience, humble, seeming slight, Formed slowly, like the brilliant stalactite, Worth a great poem in its tenuity, And born to last through all eternity. Oh to show forth What constancy of heart And study may achieve in noble art! Oh to create with love and anxious care, And leave the world, the poet's only heir, A brave medallion like a relic rare