I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.

Four grey walls, and four grey towers, Overlook a space of flowers, And the silent isle imbowers The Lady of Shalott.

That a lie which is all a lie may be met and fought with outright, But a lie which is part a truth is a harder matter to fight.

I grow in worth, and wit, and sense, Unboding critic-pen, Or that eternal want of pence, Which vexes public men.

I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?