Oh for someone with a heart, head and hand. Whatever they call them, what do I care, aristocrat, democrat, autocrat, just be it one that can rule and dare not lie.

And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.

The old order changes yielding place to new.

I am going a long way With these thou seëst-if indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt)- To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadow'd, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crown'd with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.