I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.
Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.
All experience is an arch wherethro' gleams that untraveled world whose margins fade forever and forever as we move.
Better fifty years of Europe than a cycle of Cathay.
Oh yet we trust that somehow good will be the final goal of ill!
Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.