The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.

Ring out the grief that saps the mind, for those that were here we see no more.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

Twilight and evening bell, and after that the dark! And may there be no sadness of farewell when I embark.

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

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?