TAX not the royal Saint with vain expense, With ill-matched aims the Architect who planned -- Albeit labouring for a scanty band Of white robed Scholars only -- this immense And glorious Work of fine intelligence! Give all thou canst; high Heaven rejects the lore Of nicely-calculated less or more; So deemed the man who fashioned for the sense These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof Self-poised, and scooped into ten thousand cells, Where light and shade repose, where music dwells Lingering -- and wandering on as loth to die; Like thoughts whose very sweetness yieldeth proof That they were born for immortality. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...THE WINDHOVER: TO CHRIST OUR LORD by GERARD MANLEY HOPKINS A LETTER TO LADY [MISS] MARGARET-CAVANDISH-HOLLES-HARLEY, WHEN A CHILD by MATTHEW PRIOR FROM HIDDEN SOURCE by JEAN ANDERSON IN ANSWER TO QUESTION FROM GREEK GRAMMAR: WHAT FUTURES SPEAK by ANNA LETITIA BARBAULD THE WEAVER by CHARLES GRANGER BLANDEN IN WILTSHIRE; SUGGESTED BY POINTS OF SIMILARITY WITH THE SOMME COUNTRY by EDMUND CHARLES BLUNDEN |