What tale is this which stirs a world of knaves
Out of its grubbing to throw greasy pence
Forth to the hat, and choke with eloquence
In boastful prose and verse of doubtful staves?
...
Upon the tinkling splintery battlements
Which swing and tumble south in ghostly white
Behemoth rushes blindly from the night,
Behemoth whom we have praised on instruments
...
Split the Lark—and you'll find the Music—
Bulb after Bulb, in Silver rolled—
Scantilly dealt to the Summer Morning
Saved for your Ear when Lutes be old.