Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.

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

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.

She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.