And I wove the thing to a random rhyme, For the Rose is Beauty, the Gardener, Time.

Carry his body hence! Kings must have slaves: Kings climb to eminence, Over men's graves: So this man's eye is dim; Throw the earth over him!

In merest prudence men should teach. That science ranks as monstrous things, Two pairs of upper limbs; so wings - E'en Angel's wings! - are fictions.

The ladies of St James's! They're painted to the eyes, Their white it stays for ever, Their red it never dies: But Phyllida, my Phyllida! Her colour comes and goes; It trembles to a lily, It wavers to a rose.

For I respectfully decline To dignify the Serpentine, And make hors-d'oeuvres for fishes.

For I respectfully declineTo dignify the Serpentine,And make hors-d'oeuvres for fishes.

All passes. Art alone/ Enduring stays to us;/ The bust outlasts the throne

Look thy last on all things lovely, Every hour - let no night Seal thy sense in deathly slumber Till to delight Thou hast paid thy utmost blessing

I intended an Ode, And it turned to a Sonnet.

Not as ours the books of old - Things that steam can stamp and fold; Not as ours the books of yore - Rows of type, and nothing more.