Within King's College Chapel, Cambridge
William Wordsworth, 1807

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.