This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

From yon blue heavens above us bent The gardener Adam and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent. Howe'er it be, it seems to me, 'Tis only noble to be good. Kind hearts are more than coronets, And simple faith than Norman blood.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

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

Shall eagles not be eagles? wrens be wrens? If all the world were falcons, what of that? The wonder of the eagle were the less, But he not less the eagle.