The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.
A day may sink or save a realm.
O last regret, regret can die!
I remain Mistress of mine own self and mine own soul
A lie which is half a truth is ever the blackest of lies.
I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.