Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, br Most gracious singer of high poems ! where br The dancers will break footing, from the care br Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. br And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor br For hand of thine ? and canst thou think and bear br To let thy music drop here unaware br In folds of golden fulness at my door ? br Look up and see the casement broken in, br The bats and owlets builders in the roof ! br My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. br Hush, call no echo up in further proof br Of desolation ! there 's a voice within br That weeps . . . as thou must sing . . .