For man is man and master of his fate.

Live pure, speak true, right wrong, follow the King— Else, wherefore born?

Clothed in white samite, mystic, wonderful.

Here at the quiet limit of the world.

Man’s word is God in man.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapors weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan.

Ah Christ, that it were possible For one short hour to see The souls we loved, that they might tell us What and where they be.

All night have the roses heard The flute, violin, bassoon; All night has the casement jessamine stirr’d To the dancers dancing in tune; Till a silence fell with the waking bird, And a hush with the setting moon.

She is coming, my own, my sweet; Were it ever so airy a tread, My heart would hear her and beat, Were it earth in an earthy bed; My dust would hear her and beat, Had I lain for a century dead; Would start and tremble under her feet, And blossom in purple and red.

Gorgonized me from head to foot, With a stony British stare.