To Many A Youth And Many A

My Heart Contains Of Good, Wise, Just, The Perfect Shape.

What Needs My Shakespeare For His Honour'd Bones,- The Labour Of An Age In Piled Stones? Or That His Hallow'd Relics Should Be Hid Under A Star-y-pointing Pyramid? Dear Son Of Memory, Great Heir Of Fame, What Need'st Thou Such Weak Witness Of Thy Name?

Hide Me From Day's Garish Eye.

What Better Can We Do Than Prostrate Fall Before Him Reverent, And There Confess Humbly Our Faults, And Pardon Beg With Tears Watering The Ground?

On The Tawny Sands And Shelves Trip The Pert Fairies And The Dapper Elves.