The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.

Authority forgets a dying king.

To strive, to seek, to find, and not to yield.

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

No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.

The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.

Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed.