Virtue must shape itself in deed.
Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.
Tho' much is taken, much abides.
The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.
And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.