The mighty hopes that make us men.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
All things are taken from us, and become Portions and parcels of the dreadful past.
Half the night I waste in sighs, Half in dreams I sorrow after The delight of early skies; In a wakeful dose I sorrow For the hand, the lips, the eyes, For the meeting of the morrow, The delight of happy laughter, The delight of low replies.
Man is man, and master of his fate.
What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.