Israfel

In Heaven a spirit doth dwell
  “Whose heart-strings are a lute”;  
None sing so wildly well
As the angel Israfel,
And the giddy stars,  
Ceasing their hymns, attend the spell  
  Of his voice, all mute.
Tottering above
  In her highest noon,
  The enamoured moon
Blushes with love,
  While, to listen, the red levin
  Pauses in Heaven.
And they say,
That Israfeli’s fire
Is owing to that lyre
  By which he sits and sings—  
The trembling living wire
  Of those unusual strings.
But the skies that angel trod,
  Where deep thoughts are a duty,  
Where Love’s a grown-up God,
  Where the Houri glances are  
Imbued with all the beauty
  Which we worship in a star.
Therefore, thou art not wrong,  
  Israfeli, who despisest
An unimpassioned song;
To thee the laurels belong,
  Best bard, because the wisest!  
Merrily live, and long!
The ecstasies above
  With thy burning measures suit—  
Thy grief, thy joy, thy hate, thy love,
  With the fervour of thy lute—
  Well may the stars be mute!
Yes, Heaven is thine; but this
  Is a world of sweets and sours;
  Our flowers are merely—flowers,  
And the shadow of thy perfect bliss
  Is the sunshine of ours.
If I could dwell
Where Israfel
  Hath dwelt, and he where I,
He might not sing so wildly well
  A mortal melody,
While a bolder note than this might swell  
  From my lyre within the sky.