I. A Y OF THE ROSE. 
257 
Dropp’d from her, fair and mute, 
Close to a poet’s foot, 
Who beheld them, smiling lowly, 
As at something sad and holy ; 
Said, “Verily and thus, 
So chanceth e’er with us, 
Poets, ringing sweetest snatches, 
While deaf did men keep the watches 
“ Saunting to come before 
Our own age evermore, 
In a loneness, in a loneness, 
And the nobler for that oneness 
“ But if alone we be 
Where is our empiry ? 
And if none can reach our stature 
Who will mate our lofty nature ? 
“ What bell will yield a tone 
Saving in the air alone ? 
If no brazen clapper bringing, 
Who can bear the chimed ringing 
22 * 
