The fairies break their dances And leave the printed lawn.

Life, to be sure, is nothing much to lose, But young men think it is, and we were young.

Stone, steel, dominions pass, Faith too, no wonder; So leave alone the grass That I am under.

The mortal sickness of a mind too unhappy to be kind.

Earth and high heaven are fixed of old and founded strong.

Oh who is that young sinner with the handcuffs on his wrist? And what has he been after that they groan and shake their fists? And wherefore is he wearing such a conscience-stricken air? Oh they're taking him to prison for the colour of his hair.

A moment's thought would have shown him. But a moment is a long time, and thought is a painful process.