Ring out old shapes of foul disease, Ring out the narrowing lust of gold; Ring out the thousand wars of old, Ring in the thousand years of peace.
Forgive! How many will say, forgive, and find a sort of absolution in the sound to hate a little longer!
One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.
I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.
I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?