Sing of the end of Troy, and of that flood Of passion by the blood Of heroes consecrate, by poet's craft Hallowed, if that thin waft Of godhead blown upon thee stretch thy song...
Before you pass and leave me gaunt and chill Alone to do what I have joyed in doing In your glad sight, suffer me, nor take ill If I confess you prize and me pursuing. As the rapt Tuscan lifted up his eyes...
Queen of the shadows, Maid and Wife, Twifold in essence, as in life, The lamp of Death, the star of Birth, Half cradled and half mourned by Earth, By Hell half won, half lost! aid me...
Mossy gray stands the House, four-square to the wind, Embosomed in the hills. The garden old Of yew and box and fishpond speaks her mind, Sweet-ordered, quaint, recluse, fold within fold...
I cannot add one tendril to your bays, Worn quietly where who love you sing your praise; But I may stand Among the household throng with lifted hand, Upholding for sweet honour of the land...