But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

And Thought leapt out to wed with Thought Ere Thought could wed itself with Speech.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and aimable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes man.