For Knowledge is the swallow on the lake That sees and stirs the surface-shadow there But never yet hath dipt into the abysm - Alfred Tennyson

But thou and I have shaken hands,
Till growing winters lay me low;
My paths are in the fields I know,
And thine in undiscover'd lands.

Here and there a cotter's babe is royal—born by right divine; Here and there my lord is lower than his oxen or his swine.

She clad herself in a russet gown, She was no longer Lady Clare: She went by dale, and she went by down, With a single rose in her hair. The lily-white doe Lord Ronald had brought Leapt up from where she lay. Dropped her head in the maiden's hand. And followed her all the way.