I would not creep along the coast, but steer
Out in mid-sea, by guidance of the stars.

This figure hath high price: 'twas wrought with love
Ages ago in finest ivory;
Nought modish in it, pure and noble lines
Of generous womanhood that fits all time.
That too is costly ware; majolica
Of deft design, to please a lordly eye:
The smile, you see is perfect—wonderful
As mere Faience! a table ornament
To suit the richest mounting.

Wise in his daily work was he:
To fruits of diligence,
And not to faiths or polity,
He plied his utmost sense.
These perfect in their little parts,
Whose work is all their prize—
Without them how could laws, or arts,
Or towered cities rise?

How will you know the pitch of that great bell
Too large for you to stir? Let but a flute
Play 'neath the fine-mixed metal: listen close
Till the right note flows forth, a silvery rill:
Then shall the huge bell tremble—then the mass
With myriad waves concurrent shall respond
In low soft unison.

Let the high Muse chant loves Olympian:
We are but mortals, and must sing of man.

“Your horses of the Sun,” he said,
“And first-rate whip Apollo!
Whate'er they be, I'll eat my head,
But I will beat them hollow.”

A child forsaken, waking suddenly,
Whose gaze afeard on all things round doth rove,
And seeth only that it cannot see
The meeting eyes of love.

Oh, sir, the loftiest hopes on earth
Draw lots with meaner hopes: heroic breasts,
Breathing bad air, run risk of pestilence;
Or, lacking lime-juice when they cross the Line,
May languish with the scurvy.

The clerkly person smiled and said,
Promise was a pretty maid,
But being poor she died unwed.

Black eyes you have left, you say,
Blue eyes fail to draw you;
Yet you seem more rapt to-day,
Than of old we saw you.

Oh I track the fairest fair
Through new haunts of pleasure;
Footprints here and echoes there
Guide me to my treasure:

Lo! She turns—immortal youth
Wrought to mortal stature,
Fresh as starlight's aged truth—
Many-namèd Nature!