Never yet, love, in earth's lifetime,
1
Hath any cunningest minstrel
Told the one seventh of wisdom,
Ravishment, ecstasy, transport,
Hid in the hue of the hyacinth's
Not in the lyre of Orpheus,
7
Not in the songs of Musæus,
Lurked the unfathomed bewitchment
Wrought by the wind in the grasses,
Held by the rote of the sea-surf,
Only to exquisite lovers,
13
Fashioned for beauty's fulfilment,
Mated as rhythm to reed-stop
Whence the wild music is moulded,
Ever appears the full measure