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

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

What's up is faith, what's down is heresy.

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.

A man had given all other bliss, And all his worldly worth for this To waste his whole heart in one kiss Upon her perfect lips.

Ring in the valiant man and free, The larger heart, the kindlier hand; Ring out the darkness of the land; Ring in the Christ that is to be.

Blow trumpet, for the world is white with May.