I come from haunts of coot and hern, I make a sudden sally And sparkle out among the fern, To bicker down a valley.

Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

What rights are those that dare not resist for them?

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.