I

Hearing a little child sing in the street

I leant upon his music as a theme,

      Till it gave way beneath my heart's full beat,

Which tried at an exultant prophecy

      But dropped before the measure was complete—

Alas, for songs and hearts! O Tuscany,

      O Dante's Florence, is the type too plain?

Didst thou, too, only sing of liberty,

      As little children take up a high strain

With unintentioned voices, and break off

      To sleep upon their mothers' knees again?

Could'st thou not watch one hour? Then, sleep enough—

      That sleep may hasten manhood, and sustain

The faint pale spirit with some muscular stuff.