Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.

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.

The white flower of a blameless life.

The last great Englishman is low.

Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!

And this gray spirit yearning in desire To follow knowledge like a sinking star, Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.