Song is not Truth, not Wisdom, but the rose Upon Truths lips, the light in Wisdom's eyes.

We hold our hate too choice a thing, for light and careless lavishing.

Lord of the golden tongue and smiting eyes; Great out of season and untimely wise: A man whose virtue, genius, grandeur, worth, Wrought deadlier ill than ages can undo.

His friends he loved. His direst earthly foe - Cats-I believe he did but feign to hate. My hand will miss the insinuated nose, Mine eyes the tail that wagged contempt at Fate.

God, eldest of Poets.

On from room to room I stray,Yet mine Host can ne'er espy,And I know not to this day,Whether guest or captive I.

Threadbare his songs seem now, to lettered ken: They were worn threadbare next the hearts of men.