I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
Name and fame! to fly sublime Through the courts, the camps, the schools Is to be the ball of Time, Bandied in the hands of fools.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
That man's the true Conservative who lops the moldered branch away.
...and our spirits rushed together at the touching of the lips.
The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.