From out my tossed and wayward page,
Where yet to prompt it, broad and clear,
God and demon struggling wage—
Thoughts of hope gainst things of Fear—
Something lifts: How should I know
Why or whence, save that in light,
Above my monitors of boding Night—
Tally-hands that warning draw,
With my good Augurs, joint indite,
Checked, but sure, the founded law—
It gently calls in thy behoof,
Rounding my unfinished verse,
Clinching, as from pith of proof,
What the lines but faint rehearse,
While, to deep tho’ far-off chords,
It voiceth low these simple words:

“Trust no foul, to frame best end,
Lest some taint the high Stars rue,
Dark infect all fresher True,
Subtly foil its yet portend;
And, twice blind with brute unheed,
Life’s close cypher harder read:
Lest unto all after time,
With the burden of my rhyme,
The unholy jar do foully blend,
Grudge and mar its noblest chime:
Burden, with whose nameless Deep,
Tho’ sad paths dim courses keep,
Yet repeats, invoking still,
Anthemed, the responsive will,
Suffered federate with the Prime.”

“Have thy ways confess me just,
Lest the Fate, whose hand unfolds
Devious what the world-lust holds,
Shut out all bound twixt thee and dust:
Lest large things, that she did write,
Tricked of faith and worthy scope—
Hence, unmusicked of the Hope—
Juggling blot my tablet’s white;
Nay, in her despair to shape the Soul,
She report ye foul, and tear my Scroll.”