To follow knowledge like a sinking star,

Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough

Far on the ringing plains of windy Troy.

I am become a name;

It little profits that an idle king,

The gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.

Alone and warming his five wits,

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall,

My strength is as the strength of ten,

And the sun went down, and the stars came out far over the summer sea,