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

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.

Our hoard is little, but our hearts are great.

I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

Blind and naked ignorance delivers brawling judgments, unashamed, on all things all day long

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold