I who so carefully keep in such repair

The six-inch king and the toy treasury,

Prince, poet, realm shrivelled in time’s black air,

I am not, although I seem, an antiquary.

For that scant-acre kingdom is not dead,

Nor save in seeming shrunk, When at its gate,

Which you pass daily, you incline your head,

And enter (do not knock; it keeps no state)

You will be with space and order magistral,

And that contracted world so vast will grow

That this will seem a little tangled field.

For you will be in very truth with all

In their due place and honour, row on row.

For this I read the emblem on the shield.