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

What was once to me mere matter of the fancy now has grown the vast necessity of heart and life.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

Tho' much is taken, much abides.

I know transplanted human worth will bloom to profit otherwhere.

Tis held that sorrow makes us wise.