(Tennyson)

I was cut off from hope in that sad place,
Lost in the quagmire?--lost to me and gone,
There kept it, and so lived in fantasy.

The sad mechanic exercise
Beyond the utmost bound of human thought.
In lieu of idly dallying with the truth,

And drunk delight of battle with my peers,
The sound not wonted in a place so still
Such waste and havoc of the idolatries,

The narrow street that clamber'd toward the mill.
A long melodious thunder to the sound
And lost to life and use and name and fame.

09 04 04