That man's the best cosmopolite Who loves his native country best.

Tears, idle tears, I know not what they mean, Tears from the depths of some devine despair Rise in the heart, and gather to the eyes, In looking on the happy autumn fields, And thinking of the days that are no more.

For love reflects the thing beloved.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.

The city is built To music, therefore never built at all, And therefore built forever.

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.