Thou hast thy calling to some palace-floor, <br />Most gracious singer of high poems! where <br />The dancers will break footing, from the care <br />Of watching up thy pregnant lips for more. <br />And dost thou lift this house's latch too poor <br />For hand of thine? and canst thou think and bear <br />To let thy music drip here unaware <br />In folds of golden fulness at my door? <br />Look up and see the casement broken in, <br />The bats and owlets builders in the roof! <br />My cricket chirps against thy mandolin. <br />Hush, call no echo up in further proof <br />Of desolation! there's a voice within <br />That weeps...as thou must sing...alone, aloof.<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-iv-thou-hast-thy-calling/
