Which the world knows, and reverences, and loves,
Seemed plain and bare and niggard, far too poor
For him who sang of Arthur and his knights,
And Camelot, and that strange, haunted mere.
And one who knew the name, and honour'd it,
Went to him, pleaded, then spake hotly thus:—
"Doubtest thou here so long?" Art thou the one
Whose tongue grew bitter only at the sound
Of titles, and whose satire never leaped
Forth from its hiding-place but when some claim