The votes of veering crowds are not The things that are more excellent.
The after-silence, when the feast is o'er, And void the places where the minstrels stood, Differs in nought from what hath been before, And is nor ill nor good.
Empires dissolve and peoples disappear, Song passes not away.
O ye by wandering tempest sown Neath every alien star, Forget not whence the breath was blown That wafted you afar! For ye are still her ancient seed On younger soil let fall— Children of Britain’s island-breed, To whom the Mother in her need Perchance may one day call.
O be less beautiful, or be less brief.
Hate and mistrust are the children of blindness.
In this house with starry dome, Floored with gemlike plains and seas, Shall I never feel at home, Never wholly be at ease?<p>On from room to room I stray, Yet mine Host can ne’er espy, And I know not to this day Whether guest or captive I.
Best they honour thee Who honour in thee only what is best.