All the windy ways of men Are but dust that rises up, And is lightly laid again.

The many fail: the one succeeds.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

There rolls the deep where grew the tree. O earth, what changes hast thou seen! There where the long street roars, hath been The stillness of the central sea. The hills are shadows, and they flow From form to form, and nothing stands; They melt like mist, the solid lands, Like clouds they shape themselves and go.