O Love! they die in yon rich sky, They faint on hill or field or river: Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow forever and forever. Blow, bugle, blow! set the wild echoes flying! And answer, echoes, answer! dying, dying, dying.

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

the shell must break before the bird can fly.

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

He will hold thee, when his passion shall have spent its novel force, Something better than his dog, a little dearer than his horse.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

And men, whose reason long was blind, From cells of madness unconfined, Oft lose whole years of darker mind.