Hope lies to mortals And most believe her, But man's deceiver Was never mine.

The troubles of our proud and angry dust are from eternity, and shall not fail. Bear them we can, and if we can we must. Shoulder the sky, my lad, and drink your ale.

Because I liked you better Than suits a man to say, It irked you, and I promised I'd throw the thought away. To put the world between us We parted stiff and dry: 'Farewell,' said you, 'forget me.' 'Fare well, I will,' said I. If e'er, where clover whitens The dead man's knoll, you pass, And no tall flower to meet you Starts in the trefoiled grass, Halt by the headstone shading The heart you have not stirred, And say the lad that loved you Was one that kept his word.

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

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

Tell me not here, it needs not saying, What tune the enchantress plays In aftermaths of soft September Or under blanching mays, For she and I were long acquainted And I knew all her ways.

We now to peace and darkness And earth and thee restore Thy creature that thou madest And wilt cast forth no more.