Poetry is not the thing said, but the way of saying it.

Therefore, since the world has still Much good, but much less good than ill, And while the sun and moon endure Luck's a chance, but trouble's sure, I'd face it as a wise man would, And train for ill and not for good.

And silence sounds no worse than cheers After earth has stopped the ears.

The rainy Pleiads wester Orion plunges prone, And midnight strikes and hastens, And I lie down alone.

All knots that lovers tie Are tied to sever. Here shall your sweetheart lie, Untrue for ever.

Stars, I have seen them fall, But when they drop and die No star is lost at all From all the star-sown sky. The toil of all that be Helps not the primal fault; It rains into the sea And still the sea is salt.

All knowledge is precious whether or not it serves the slightest human use.