The woods decay, the woods decay and fall, The vapours weep their burthen to the ground, Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many summer dies the swan. Me only cruel immortality Consumes: I wither slowly in thine arms, Here at the quiet limit of the world.

The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

The thrall in person may be free in soul

Sunset and evening star, And one clear call for me! And may there be no moaning of the bar When I put out to sea.

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.

Ours not to reason why, ours but to do and die.