I know a green grass path that leaves the field
  And, like a running river, winds along
  Into a leafy wood, where is no throng
Of birds at noon-day; and no soft throats yield
Their music to the moon.  The place is sealed,
  An unclaimed sovereignty of voiceless song,
  And all th' unravished silences belong
To some sweet singer lost, or unrevealed.

So is my soul become a silent place.
  Oh, may I wake from this uneasy night
  To find some voice of music manifold.
Let it be shape of sorrow with wan face,
  Or love, that swoons on sleep, or else delight
  That is as wide-eyed as a marigold.