Yet all experience is an arch wherethrough Gleams that untraveled world whose margin fades Forever and forever when I move. How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life!
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.
I do but sing because I must; and pipe but as the linnets sing.
No rock so hard but that a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.
The voice of the dead was a living voice to me.