And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.
Nothing in Nature is unbeautiful.
Ah! well away! Seasons flower and fade.
Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?