Ye gentle ministers, ye have done well,
But 'tis for love that most the poet pineth,
And till I spell him with my magic spell,
In vain for him earth smiles or heaven shineth.
Behold I touch his heart, and there upspring
Blooms to his cheeks, and flashes to his eyes;
His scornful lips upon the instant sing,
And all his pulses leap with ecstasies.
'Tis love the poet wants; he cannot live
Without caressing and without caress,
Which all to charity his fellows give;
But I will wrap his soul in tenderness,
And straightway from his lips will burst a song
All loving hearts shall echo and prolong.