Sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying thro' the lawn, The moans of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.

By blood a king, in heart a clown.

The many fail: the one succeeds.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.