In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
"Whose heart-strings are a lute;"
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel
And the giddy stars (so legends tell)
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell
Of his voice, all mute

Tottering above
In her highest noon
The enamored moon
Blushes with love
While, to listen, the red levin
(With the rapid Pleiads, even
Which were seven,)
Pauses in Heaven

And they say (the starry choir
And the other listening things)
That Israfeli's fire
Is owing to that lyre
By which he sits and sings—
The trembling living wire
Of those unusual strings

But the skies that angel trod
Where deep thoughts are a duty—
Where Love's a grown-up God
Where the Houri glances are
Imbued with all the beauty
Which we worship in a star
Therefore thou art not wrong
Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong
Best bard, because the wisest!
Merrily live, and long!

The ecstasies above
With thy burning measures suit—
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love
With the fervor of thy lute—
Well may the stars be mute!

Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
Is a world of sweets and sours;
Our flowers are merely—flowers
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
Is the sunshine of ours

If I could dwell
Where Israfel
Hath dwelt, and he where I
He might not sing so wildly well
A mortal melody
While a bolder note than this might
Swell
From my lyre within the sky