Give me the heart whose rapture fine
Flames from a draught of its own wine,
And take the heart that, self-effaced,
By alien fancy is embraced.

Give me the heart, give me the heart
That of the world will have no part;
I yield the heart right gladly o’er
That is a slave to less and more.

O draw me forth, thou huntsman bold,
Out of fate’s quiver thou dost hold;
Except the shaft be put to bow,
How shall it lay the quarry low?

This life is ne’er a weary thing
While there be worlds for conquerring:
Behold, one world lies bound and tied—
Into another world I ride.