And, at the day's end, boast the crown's award—
Be warranted as promising to wield
Weapons, no sham, in a true battlefield.
LXIV
Meantime, our simulated thunderclaps
Which tell us counterfeited truths—these same
Are—sound, when music storms the soul, perhaps?
—Sight, beauty, every dart of every aim
That touches just, then seems, by strange relapse,
To fall effectless from the soul it came