Once upon a midnight dreary, I wandered lonely as a cloud;

I met a traveller from an antique land, who said:

Two roads diverge in a yellow wood, half a league onward.

In Xanadu ’twas brilig- and all through the house

The wind was a torrent by the dawn’s early light.

If you had world enough and time,

Then gather ye rosebuds while ye may;

April is the cruelest month,

Season of mists and mellow

Fruit of that forbidden tree.

So how shall I compare thee to a summer’s day?

O Captain! my Captain! Let me count the ways!