Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?
Words, like nature, half reveal and half conceal the soul within.
Nor is it wiser to weep a true occasion lost, but trim our sails, and let old bygones be.
But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.
There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.
An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.