June suns, you cannot store them To warm the winter's cold, The lad that hopes for heaven Shall fill his mouth with mould.

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

Good religious poetry... is likely to be most justly appreciated and most discriminately relished by the undevout.

With rue my heart is laden For golden friends I had, For many a rose-lipped maiden And many a lightfoot lad.

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

There, by the starlit fences The wanderer halts and hears My soul that lingers sighing About the glimmering weirs.

When the journey's over/There'll be time enough to sleep.