That is the land of lost content, I see it shining plain, the happy highways where I went and cannot come again.

And malt does more than Milton can to justify God's ways to man.

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

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

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.

Strapped, noosed, nighing his hour, He stood and counted them and cursed his luck; And then the clock collected in the tower Its strength, and struck.

But men at whiles are sober And think by fits and starts. And if they think, they fasten Their hands upon their hearts