In
vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My
spirit is at peace with all.
They
haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair,
The memory like a cloudless air,
The
conscience as a sea at rest:
But
when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the gates,
And
hear the household jar within.