But At My Back I Always Hear

My Mind Was Once The True Survey Of All These Meadows Fresh And Gay; And In The Greenness Of The Grass Did See Its Hopes As In A Glass.

My Love Is Of A Birth As Rare As 'tis, For Object, Strange And High; It Was Begotten By Despair Upon Impossibility.

Music, The Mosaic Of The Air.

And All The Way, To Guide Their Chime, With Falling Oars They Kept Their Time.

How Fit He Is To Sway That Can So Well Obey.