My imagination is a monastery and I am its monk.

Through the sad heart of Ruth, when sick for home She stood in tears amid the alien corn; The same that ofttimes hath Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

Feeling well that breathed words Would all be lost, unheard, and vain as swords Against the enchased crocodile, or leaps Of grasshoppers against the sun.

Open afresh your rounds of starry folds, Ye ardent Marigolds.

Thou foster-child of Silence and slow Time.

Call the world if you please "the vale of soul-making." Then you will find out the use of the world.

In a drear-nighted December, Too happy, happy tree, Thy branches ne'er remember Their green felicity.