Their Woes Gone By, And Both To

Much Have I Travell'd In The Realms Of Gold.

Works Of Genius Are The First Things In The World.

--then On The Shore Of The Wide World I Stand Alone, And Think Till Love And Fame To Nothingness Do Sink.

The Poetry Of Earth Is Never Dead When All The Birds Are Faint With The Hot Sun, And Hide I Cooling Trees, A Voice Will Run From Hedge To Hedge About The New-mown Mead.

Joy, Whose Hand Is Ever At His Lips, Bidding Adieu