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

God, eldest of Poets.

Braying of arrogant brass, whimper of querulous reeds.

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.

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.

The thirst to know and understand a large and liberal discontent.