Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.

It may be that no life is found, Which only to one engine bound Falls off, but cycles always round.

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.

I stood on a tower in the wet, And New Year and Old Year met, And winds were roaring and blowing: And I said, "O years, that meet in tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? Science enough and exploring, Wanderers coming and going, Matter enough for deploring, But aught that is worth the knowing?

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.