The Imperial Consort Of The Fairy-King Owns Not A Sylvan Bower; Or Gorgeous Cell With Emerald Floored, And With Purpureal Shell Ceilinged And Roofed; That Is So Fair A Thing As This Low Structure, For The Tasks Of Spring, Prepared By One Who Loves The Buoyant Swell Of The Brisk Waves, Yet Here Consents To Dwell; And Spreads In Steadfast Peace Her Brooding Wing. Words Cannot Paint The O'Ershadowing Yew-Tree Bough, And Dimly-Gleaming Nest, A Hollow Crown Of Golden Leaves Inlaid With Silver Down, Fine As The Mother'S Softest Plumes Allow: I Gazed And, Self-Accused While Gazing, Sighed For Human-Kind, Weak Slaves Of Cumbrous Pride!