It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.
He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.
A classic lecture, rich in sentiment, With scraps of thundrous Epic lilted out By violet-hooded Doctors, elegies And quoted odes, and jewels five-words-long, That on the stretched forefinger of all Time Sparkle for ever.
I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
There sinks the nebulous star we call the sun.
Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.