I saw a form, that glorious still remained.And even there, where mould and damp were clinging,
Are known to thee, to thee alone!
One endless Mayday, through the livelong year!
Soft tendrils twine;While from the press escapes,Born of the juicy grapes,
"None is in his eyes the meanest--He whose limbs are lame and palsied,He whose soul is wildly riven,Worn with sorrow, hopeless, helpless,Be he Brahmin, be he Pariah,If tow'rd heaven he turns his gaze,Will perceive, will learn to know it:Thousand eyes are glowing yonder,Thousand ears are calmly list'ning,From which nought below is hid.
Conscious alone, when she herself appears;Feels itself freer in so sweet a thrall,And only beats to give her thanks in all.
Handed to far ages down,
The one his pleasures around him strews,
In the place my art foretold