Classic Poem

Blame me not that I refuse
To sing when racking with despair:
Into my heart I take the Muse
But not that she may make it bare.

Well she knows me that my love
Is such as will not clip her wings:
I listen while she soars above
And from her sovran fancy, sings.

Enough to know that she is mine,
Unfetter'd by my selfish grief:
Made by her happiness divine,
And better strung to shed relief;

Shed relief, console, exalt;—
Than if, toucht by our mortal taint,
Taught the dark evils of a fault
To utter in melodious plaint.

My breast is like that castle old
Where one forbidden closet stood:
Fair shone the land in sheaves of gold
Around it many a swelling rood [?]:

From every window it was fair
And fresh with minstrelsy, save one:
On pain of death thou enterest there
My Muse! into it enter none.