Whence is thy song,
Voluptuous soul of the amorous South!
Oh! whence the wind, the rain, the drouth;
The dews of eve; the mists of morn;
The bloom of rose; the thistle's thorn;
Whence light of love; whence dark of scorn;
Whence joy; whence grief; Death, born of wrong —
Ah! whence is life ten-thousand passions throng?—
Thence is thy song!
Thou singest the rage of jealous Moor,
The passionate love of Juliet;
Thy villainous art can weave a net
With shreds of song, that never yet
Hath lover escaped, however noble and pure.
Ophelia's broken heart is thine,
And Desdemona's, true and good;
Thou paintest the damn-ed spot of blood
That will not out in stain or line!
Oh Lear! Oh Fool! Oh Witch Macbeth!
And wondrous Hamlet in a breath!
Who knows thy heart? thy song? thy words?
Thou Shakespeare in the realm of birds!