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Poem by William Wordsworth


Inside of King's College Chapel, Cambridge


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. 



William Wordsworth


William Wordsworth's other poems:
  1. Monastery of Old Bangor
  2. To the Lady Eleanor Butler and the Hon. Miss Ponsonby
  3. Mona
  4. Miserrimus
  5. The Brownie

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