Excerpt...
Thy poet, Lady, I would be
To sing thy peerless praise;
Thy loyal bard, I'd bring to thee
Heart-music from all lays.
Soft melody, outpoured in June
By God's dear feathered throng,
Would mingle with the organ's roll
To glorify my song;
And Dante's voice and Petrarch's strain
And Milton's matchless line
Would lend to my poor minstrel note
A harmony divine.
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