When I have fears that I may cease to be,
Before my pen has gleaned my teening brain,
Before high-piled books,in charactery come to existence
Before my words steam from them pages opening
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.