The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.

The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.

Trust me not at all, or all in all.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.