Not for a kindred reason thee we praise

With those, who in their minstrelsy are lords

Of elfin pipe and witchery of words,

Masters of life, who thread its tangled maze,

And on strange corners turn their curious gaze;

Nor those that delve for jewels in the hoards

Of old philosophies, of love's soft ways

Sing variously, or chaunt of clashing swords.

Rather for sympathy with the silent laws,

Which are themselves but sympathies; that the worn

Fine here a "still Saint Mary's Lake"; because

"The world is too much with us," and through thee

"Old Triton" sometimes blows on "wreathed horn"

A fitful note, clear from infinity.