Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, little breezes dusk and shiver, thro' the wave that runs forever by the island in the river, flowing down to Camelot. Four gray walls and four gray towers, overlook a space of flowers, and the silent isle imbowers, the Lady of Shalott.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

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

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.