Turn The Key Deftly In The Oiled

The Excellence Of Every Art Is Its Intensity, Capable Of Making All Disagreeables Evaporate, From Their Being In Close Relationship With Beauty And Truth.

No Sooner Had I Stepp'd Into These Pleasures Than I Began To Think Of Rhymes And Measures: The Air That Floated By Me Seem'd To Say 'write! Thou Wilt Never Have A Better Day.

Thou Wast Not Born For Death, Immortal Bird! No Hungry Generations Tread Thee Down; The Voice I Hear This Passing Night Was Heard In Ancient Days By Emperor And Clown: Perhaps The Self-same Song That Found A Path Through The Sad Heart Of Ruth, When, Sick For Home, She Stood In Tears Amid The Alien Corn; The Same That Ofttimes Hath Charm'd Magic Casements, Opening On The Foam Of Perilous Seas, In Faery Lands Forlorn.

Sometimes Goldfinches One By One Will Drop From Low Hung Branches; Little Space They Stop; But Sip, And Twitter, And Their Feathers Sleek; Then Off At Once, As In A Wanton Freak: Or Perhaps, To Show Their Black, And Golden Wings Pausing Upon Their Yellow Flutterings.

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!