Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.

Willows whiten, aspens quiver, Little breezes dusk and shiver.

To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

And wheresoe'er thou move, good luck Shall fling her old shoe after.