A simple maiden in her flower Is worth a hundred coats-of-arms. - Alfred Tennyson

Well, Gosse, would you like to know what I think of Churton Collins? I think he's a Louse on the Locks of Literature.

the deep moans round with many voices.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world, A white-hair'd shadow roaming like a dream The ever-silent spaces of the East, Far-folded mists, and gleaming halls of morn.