I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.

All Life needs for life is possible to will.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?