<h2>IV</h2>
<p>Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor,<br/>
Most gracious singer of high poems! where<br/>
The dancers will break footing, from the care<br/>
Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more.<br/>
And dost thou lift this house’s latch too poor<br/>
For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear<br/>
To let thy music drop here unaware<br/>
In folds of golden fulness at my door?<br/>
Look up and see the casement broken in,<br/>
The bats and owlets builders in the roof!<br/>
My cricket chirps against thy mandolin.<br/>
Hush, call no echo up in further proof<br/>
Of desolation! there’s a voice within<br/>
That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . . alone, aloof.</p>
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