Father of my poor music—if such small
Offspring as mine, so born out of due time,
So scorn’d, can be called fatherful at all,
Or dare to thy high sonship’s rank to climb—
Best lov’d of all the dead whom I love best,
Though I love many another dearly too,
You in my heart take rank above the rest;
King of those kings that most control me, you,
You were about my path, about my bed
In boyhood always and, where’er I be,
Whate’er I think or do, you, in my head,
Ground-bass to all my thoughts, are still with me;
Methinks the very worms will find some strain
Of yours still lingering in my wasted brain.