But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

A brotherhood of venerable trees.

And mighty poets in their misery dead.

That blessed mood in which the burthen of the mystery, in which the heavy and the weary weight of all this unintelligible world is lightened.

Sad fancies do we then affect, In luxury of disrespect To our own prodigal excess Of too familiar happiness.

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

Truth takes no account of centuries.