No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.
Be near me when my light is low... And all the wheels of being slow.
The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.
How fares it with the happy dead?
So I find every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not
And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain.