Then Wilt Thou Not Be Loath To

Fairy Damsels Met In Forest Wide / By Knights Of Logres, Or Of Lyones, / Lancelot Or Pelleas, Or Pellenore.

Sweet Bird That Shunn'st The Nose Of Folly, Most Musical, Most Melancholy! Thee, Chauntress, Oft, The Woods Among, I Woo, To Hear Thy Even-song.

Yet Some There Be That By Due Steps Aspire To Lay Their Just Hands On That Golden Key That Opes The Palace Of Eternity.

Let None Admire That Riches Grow In Hell; That Soil May Best Deserve The Precious Bane.

How Often From The Steep Of Echoing Hill Or Thicket Have We Heard Celestial Voices To The Midnight Air, Sole, Or Responsive Each To Other's Note, Singing Their Great Creator?