By blood a king, in heart a clown.

This truth within thy mind rehearse, That in a boundless universe Is boundless better, boundless worse.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

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.

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

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.