We are ancients of the earth, And in the morning of the times.
I am half-sick of shadows,' said The Lady of Shalott.
To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.
The greater person is one of courtesy.
The long day wanes; the slow moon climbs the deep.
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.