The silver snarling trumpets 'gan to chide. - John Keats

Thou wast not born for death, immortal Bird!
No hungry generations tread thee down;
The voice I hear this passing night was heard
In ancient days by emperor and clown:
Perhaps the self-same song that found a path
Through the sad heart of Ruth, when, sick for home,
She stood in tears amid the alien corn;
The same that ofttimes hath
Charm'd magic casements, opening on the foam
Of perilous seas, in faery lands forlorn.

The two divinest things the world has got — A lovely woman and a rural spot.

None can usurp this height...
But those to whom the miseries of the world
Are misery, and will not let them rest.