Whose beating heat filled the high heart with mirth,
And made the world one sovereign pleasure-house
Where king and serf might revel and carouse:
Then of the hunt on autumn-plaintive hills;
Lone forest lodges by their radiant rills;
His palace at Caerleon upon Usk,
And Camelot's loud halls that through the dusk
Blazed far and bloomed, a rose of revelry;
Or, in the misty morning, shadowy
Loomed, grave with audience. And then he thought