CCCXXVII — Within King’s College Chapel, Cambridge
Tax not the royal Saint with vain expense,
With ill-match’d aims the Architect who plann’d
(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 deem’d the man who fashion’d for the sense
These lofty pillars, spread that branching roof
Self-poised, and scoop’d 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.
W. Wordsworth