No more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man But teach high thought and amiable words And courtliness and the desire of fame And love of truth and all that makes a man.
I am going a long way With these thou seestif indeed I go (For all my mind is clouded with a doubt) To the island-valley of Avilion, Where falls not hail or rain or any snow, Nor ever wind blows loudly; but it lies Deep-meadowed, happy, fair with orchard lawns And bowery hollows crowned with summer sea, Where I will heal me of my grievous wound.
Idylls of the King: The Passing of Arthur. Line 424.
Ill never love any but you, the morning song of the lark; Ill never love any but you, the nightingales hymn in the dark.
The first Quarrel.
Note 1. FitzGerald: Omar Khayyám (1859) xcix. Ah Love! could thou and I with Fate conspire To grasp this sorry Scheme of Things entire, Would we not shatter it to bitsand then Re-mould it nearer to the Hearts Desire! [back]