XVII <br /> <br />My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes <br />God set between his After and Before, <br />And strike up and strike off the general roar <br />Of the rushing worlds a melody that floats <br />In a serene air purely. Antidotes <br />Of medicated music, answering for <br />Mankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pour <br />From thence into their ears. God's will devotes <br />Thine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine. <br />How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use? <br />A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fine <br />Sad memory, with thy songs to interfuse? <br />A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine? <br />A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.<br /><br />Elizabeth Barrett Browning<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/sonnet-17-my-poet-thou-canst-touch-on-all-the-no/
