Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.

I have led her home, my love, my only friend. There is none like her, none, And never yet so warmly ran my blood, And sweetly, on and on Calming itself to the long-wished for end, Full to the banks, close on the prom- ised good.

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

Mastering the lawless science of our law,- that codeless myriad of precedent, that wilderness of single instances.

The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.

Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.