But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.

Let knowledge grow from more to more, But more of reverence in us dwell; That mind and soul, according well, May make one music as before, But vaster.

Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

He that wrongs a friend Wrongs himself more, and ever bears about A silent court of justice in his breast, Himself the judge and jury, and himself The prisoner at the bar ever condemned.

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

The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.