These tales of old disguisings, are they not
Strange myths of souls that found themselves among
Unwonted folk that spake a hostile tongue,
Some soul from all the rest who'd not forgot
The star-span acres of a former lot
Where boundless mid the clouds his course he swung,
Or carnate with his elder brothers sung
E'er ballad makers lisped of Camelot?
Old singers half-forgetful of their tunes,
Old painters colour-blind come back once more,
Old poets skilless in the wind-heart runes,
Old wizards lacking in their wonder-lore:
All they that with strange sadness in their eyes
Ponder in silence o'er earth's queynt devyse?