My Keys

I.

To no crag-crowning castle above the wild main,

To no bower of fair lady or villa in Spain;

To no deep, hidden vaults where the stored jewels shine,

Or the South’s ruddy sunlight is prisoned in wine;

To no gardens enchanted where nightingales sing,

And the flowers of all climes breathe perpetual spring:

            To none of all these

            They give access, my keys,

            My magical ebon and ivory keys.

II.

But to temples sublime, where music is prayer,

To the bower of a goddess supernally fair;

To the crypts where the ages their mysteries keep,

Where the sorrows and joys of earth’s greatest ones sleep;

Where the wine of emotion a life’s thirst may still,

And the jewels of thought gleam to light at my will:

            To more than all these

            They give access, my keys,

            My magical ebon and ivory keys.

III.

To bright dreams of the past in locked cells of the mind,

To the tombs of dead joys in their beauty enshrined;

To the chambers where love’s recollections are stored,

And the fanes where devotion’s best homage is poured;

To the cloudland of hope, where the dull mist of tears

As the rainbow of promise illumined appears;

            To all these, when I please,

            They give access, my keys,

            My magical ebon and ivory keys.

Only an Interpreter

The world will still go on the very same

When the last feeble echo of my name

Has died from out men’s listless hearts and ears

...