Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.
A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.
Wearing all that weight Of learning lightly like a flower.
Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.
The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.
I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot.