Page:The ascent of man by Blind, Mathilde.djvu/151

Rh Ah, what pæans of joy, what raptures no mortal can measure, Sweet as honey that's sealed in the cells of the honey-comb, Would have ascended on high in jets of mellifluous pleasure. Would have dropped from the clouds to nest in its gold-curtained home.

Poor, pathetic brown eggs! Oh, pulses that never will quicken! Music mute in the shell that hath been turned to a tomb! Many a sweet human singer, chilled and adversity-stricken, Withers benumbed in a world his joy might have helped to illume.