"Exquisite solvent of the gods, and dear,
That goads man's sluggish nature into deeds!
The heart is waste and barren till it bleeds;
Poor, shrinking soul! Hope's fruitful half is—
Fear;
The fire-emboweled Earth, in tost career,
Knows all thy inarticulate needs;
Begets and buries races, nurtures, feeds;
The blood would rot in Pleasure's atmosphere;
Old Chaos' self crept into Beauty's shape
Through feeling, sense, blind Impulse at the
wheel;
To think were devilish, severed from to feel;
Man, reft of heart, were but a chattering ape!
Wine issues only from the trodden grape,
And iron must be blistered into steel!"
