Read my little fable: He that runs may read. Most can raise the flowers now, For all have got the seed.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

Where love could walk with banish'd Hope no more.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

The splendour falls on castle walls And snowy summits old in story: The long light shakes across the lakes, And the wild cataract leaps in glory. Blow, bugle, blow, set the wild echoes flying, Blow, bugle; answer, echoes, dying, dying, dying.

Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.