Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.

That which we are, we are, and if we are ever to be any better, now is the time to begin.

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 old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.

There she weaves by night and day, A magic web with colors gay. She has heard a whisper say, A curse is on her if she stay, To look down to Camelot. She knows not what the curse may be, And so she weaveth steadily, And little other care hath she, The Lady of Shalott.