Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

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

A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.

Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

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.