Though thou wert scattered to the wind, Yet is there plenty of the kind.

It was my duty to have loved the highest; It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.

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?

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.