And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.

Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.

What is it all but a trouble of ants in the gleam of a million million of suns?

The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

The last great Englishman is low.