A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.

The world which credits what is done is cold to all that might have been.

I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?

Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.

Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

Men may come and men may go but I go on forever.