The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

There is sweet music here that softer falls Than petals from blown roses on the grass.

A daughter of the gods, divinely tall, And most divinely fair.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

The mirror crack'd from side to side "The curse has come upon me," cried The Lady of Shalott

For always roaming with a hungry heart.

And down I went to fetch my bride: But, Alice, you were ill at ease; This dress and that by turns you tried, Too fearful that you should not please. I loved you better for your fears, I knew you could not look but well; And dews, that would have fall'n in tears, I kiss'd away before they fell.