Sonnets from the Portuguese: XVII

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notesGod set between His After and Before,And strike up and strike off the general roarOf the rushing worlds a melody that floatsIn a serene air purely. AntidotesOf medicated music, answering forMankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pourFrom thence into their ears. God's will devotesThine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fineSad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?A shade, in which to sing-of palm or pine?A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.