To Sorrow I Bade Good-morrow, And Thought

I Scarcely Remember Counting Upon Happiness—i Look Not For It If It Be Not In The Present Hour—nothing Startles Me Beyond The Moment. The Setting Sun Will Always Set Me To Rights, Or If A Sparrow Come Before My Window I Take Part In Its Existence And Pick About The Gravel.

X. I Saw Pale Kings And Princes Too, Pale Warriors, Death-pale Were They All; They Cried—“la Belle Dame Sans Merci Hath Thee In Thrall!” Xi. I Saw Their Starved Lips In The Gloam, With Horrid Warning Gaped Wide, And I Awoke And Found Me Here, On The Cold Hill’s Side. Xii. And This Is Why I Sojourn Here, Alone And Palely Loitering, Though The Sedge Is Wither’d From The Lake, And No Birds Sing.

Through Buried Paths, Where Sleepy Twilight Dreams The Summer Time Away.

O Solitude! If I Must With Thee Dwell, Let It Not Be Among The Jumbled Heap Of Murky Buildings

A Man Should Have The Fine Point Of His Soul Taken Off To Become Fit For This World.