Where Once My Careless Childhood

Bright-eyed Fancy, Hov'ring O'er, Scatters From Her Pictured Urn Thoughts That Breathe And Words That Burn.

Nor Grandeur Hear With A Disdainful Smile The Short And Simple Annals Of The Poor.

There Are Certain Scenes That Would Awe An Atheist Into Belief, Without The Help Of Other Argument.

Can Storied Urn, Or Animated Bust Back To Its Mansion Call The Fleeting Breath? Can Honour's Voice Provoke The Silent Dust, Or Flatt'ry Soothe The Dull Cold Ear Of Death?

Far From The Madding Crowd's Ignoble Strife.