<h2>XVII</h2>
<p>My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes<br/>
God set between His After and Before,<br/>
And strike up and strike off the general roar<br/>
Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats<br/>
In a serene air purely. Antidotes<br/>
Of medicated music, answering for<br/>
Mankind’s forlornest uses, thou canst pour<br/>
From thence into their ears. God’s will devotes<br/>
Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.<br/>
How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?<br/>
A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine<br/>
Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?<br/>
A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine?<br/>
A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.</p>
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