A petty, narrow range I write as true Not of magnificio, swathed in gold; Nor ballad of mystery long untold Can I give proper poet's deference to. No, not of seas, whose wave-cusps, ever reaching Toward that antique heaven, enshrined still, Have inspired thousand seekers, ever searching For perfection, with which to frame their will. No, not of Earth, whose fresh, enticing breast I have left so long in solitude, untrod, While multitudes would come, their souls to rest To find themselves, their Nature, or their God. Not even of that sweetest love, Love Gained Since I by force would not accept its joys, Though to the Age of Man, it has remained The greatest of humanity's employs. Truly, whatever gifts I would possess Can only enrich places I have been I cannot tell what I have never seen When such longing pervades my happiness.