Thou hadst, for weary feet, the gift of rest.

The after-silence, when the feast is o'er,And void the places where the minstrels stood,Differs in nought from what hath been before,And is nor ill nor good.

Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

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.

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

God, eldest of Poets.

Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness.