O David, if I had
Your power, I should be glad -
	In harping, with the sling,
	In patient reasoning!

Blake, Homer, Job, and you,
Have made old wine-skins new.
	Your energies have wrought
	Stout continents of thought.

But, David, if the heart
Be brass, what boots the art
	Of exorcising wrong,
	Of harping to a song?

The sceptre and the ring
And every royal thing
	Will fail. Grief's lustiness
	Must cure that harp's distress.