I built my soul a lordly pleasure-house, Wherein at ease for aye to dwell.

Launch your vessel, And crowd your canvas, And, ere it vanishes Over the margin, After it, follow it, FollowThe Gleam.

Forgive my grief for one removed Thy creature whom I found so fair I trust he lives in Thee and there I find him worthier to be loved.

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.

For this is England's greatest son, He that gain'd a hundred fights, And never lost an English gun.

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

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