So many books are gone, lost in the mind,
1
Nurture forgotten; once on fancy's tongue
Sweet to the taste; many a honeyed song,
Yea! and deep-thoughted fruit with bitter rind:
Browning goes not. As when a boy, I find
5
Still the old magic master loved so long;
Here still the strength that still can make me strong,
Still the delight of mountains still behind;
And still, among the rocks and stars of speech,
9
The sudden silver singing of a bird,
Perched on the craggy ridges of his thought,
Too high 'twould seem to sing—still out of reach
12
Of the world's ear, that hardly yet hath caught
The music hidden in the gnarlèd word.