The year is dying in the night.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

The parting of a husband and wife is like the cleaving of a heart; one half will flutter here, one there.

There lives more faith in honest doubt, believe me, than in half the creeds.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.