Israfel

    "Whose heart-strings¹ are a lute"；

    None sing so wildly well

    As the angel Israfel

    And the giddy stars （so legends tell）

    Ceasing their hymns² attend the spell

    Of his voice all mute.

    Tottering³ above

    In her highest noon

    The enamored moon

    Blushes with love

    While to listen the red levin

    （With the rapid Pleiads even

    Which were seven ）

    Pauses in Heaven.

    And they say （the starry⁴ choir⁵

    And the other listening things）

    That Israfeli's fire

    Is owing to that lyre

    By which he sits and sings-

    The trembling living wire

    Of those unusual strings.

    But the skies that angel trod

    Where deep thoughts are a duty-

    Where Love's a grown-up God-

    Where the Houri glances are

    Imbued⁶ with all the beauty

    Which we worship in a star.

    Therefore thou art not wrong

    Israfeli who despisest

    An unimpassioned song；

    To thee the laurels⁷ belong

    Best bard⁸ because the wisest！

    Merrily live and long！

    The ecstasies⁹ above

    With thy burning measures suit-

    Thy grief thy joy thy hate thy love

    With the fervor¹⁰ of thy lute-

    Well may the stars be mute！

    Yes Heaven is thine； but this

    Is a world of sweets and sours；

    Our flowers are merely- flowers

    And the shadow of thy perfect bliss¹¹

    Is the sunshine of ours.

    If I could dwell

    Where Israfel

    Hath dwelt and he where I

    He might not sing so wildly well

    A mortal melody

    While a bolder note than this might swell¹²

    From my lyre within the sky.