So I sang; but the Muse,
Shaking her head, took the harp–
Stern interrupted my strain,
Angrily smote on the chords.
Rush o’er the Yorkshire moors.
Stormy, through driving mist,
Loom the blurr’d hills; the rain
Lashes the newly-made grave.
–In the dark fermentation of earth,
In the never idle workshop of nature,
In the eternal movement,
Ye shall find yourselves again!