Fie on this dross! My wit is dull’d and spent,
Like rusty blade that bites not at the foe.
Where is that fire from Heav&#39;nly regions sent,
To make the muddy waters clearly flow?
Thou art the sun that gilds my darkest thought,
Yet shroud&#39;st thy face in clouds of sullen grey; 
By thy decree is every wonder wrought,
Or by thy scorn, my spirit cast away.
Pluck from my tongue this heavy, silent stone, 
And tune my voice to match the morning lark;
I’ll sing a song for thy perfections known,
And strike a light within the biting dark.
&nbsp;&nbsp; For though the world may mock this humble rhyme,
&nbsp;&nbsp; Thy name shall outstep even greedy Time.

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