For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.
Too much wit makes the world rotten.
Virtue! – to be good and just – Every heart, when sifted well, Is a clot of warmer dust, Mix’d with cunning sparks of hell.
It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.
So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not.
The old order changes yielding place to new.
Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.
So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.
I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.
The woods decay, the woods decay and fall...
Happy days roll onward leading up to golden years.
I found Him in the shining of the stars.
The words ‘far, far away’ had always a strange charm.
The year is dying in the night.
The wild swan’s death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.
Through the ages one increasing purpose runs.
The golden guess is morning-star to the full round of truth.
Her court was pure, her life serene; God gave her peace; her land reposed; A thousand claims to reverence closed...
I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.
Woman is the lesser man.