William Wordsworth

To ———

From the dark chambers of dejection freed,
Spurning the unprofitable yoke of care
Rise, **** rise: the gales of youth shall bear
Thy genius forward like a winged steed.
Though bold Bellerophon (so Jove decreed
In wrath) fell headlong from the fields of air,
Yet a high guerdon waits on minds that dare,
If aught be in them of immortal seed,
And reason govern that audacious flight
Which heav'n-ward they direct.—Then droop not thou,
Erroneously renewing a sad vow
In the low dell mid Roslin's fading grove:
A cheerful life is what the Muses love,
A soaring spirit is their prime delight.