SONNET XVII

My poet,though cant touch on all the notes

God set between his After and Before,

And strike up and strike off the general roar

Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats

In a serene air purely.Antidotes.

Of medicated music,answering for

Mankind’s forlornest uses,though cant pour

From then into their ears.God’s will devotes

Thine to such ends,and mine to wait on thine.

How,dearest,will though have me for most use?

A hope,to sing by gladly?or a fine

Sad memory,with the songs to interfuse?

A shade,in which to sing–of palm or pine

A grave,on which to rest from singing?Choose.

Poem by ELIZABETH BROWNING