AS when a man, that sails in a balloon,
    Downlooking sees the solid shining ground
Stream from beneath him in the broad blue noon,
    Tilth, hamlet, mead and mound:

And takes his flags and waves them to the mob
    That shout below, all faces turned to where
Glows rubylike the far-up crimson globe,
    Filled with a finer air:

So, lifted high, the poet at his will
    Lets the great world flit from him, seeing all,
Higher thro’ secret splendours mounting still,
    Self-poised, nor fears to fall.

Hearing apart the echoes of his fame.
    While I spoke thus, the seedsman, Memory,
Sowed my deep-furrowed thought with many a name
    Whose glory will not die.