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

Nature, not content with denying him the ability to think, has endowed him with the ability to write.

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

Tomorrow, more's the pity, Away we both must hie, To air the ditty and to earth I.

Wanderers eastward, wanderers west, Know you why you cannot rest? 'Tis that every mother's son Travails with a skeleton. Lie down in the bed of dust; Bear the fruit that bear you must; Bring the eternal seed to light, And morn is all the same as night.

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

Poems very seldom consist of poetry and nothing else; and pleasure can be derived also from their other ingredients. I am convinced that most readers, when they think they are admiring poetry, are deceived by inability to analyse their sensations, and that they are really admiring, not the poetry of the passage before them, but something else in it, which they like better than poetry.