A louse in the locks of literature.

Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.

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.

The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

Break, break, break, On thy cold gray stones, oh sea! And I would that my tongue could utter The thoughts that arise in me.

The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.

Music that gentlier on the spirit lies, Than tired eyelids upon tired eyes.