In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

Theirs is not to make reply: Theirs is not to reason why: Theirs is but to do and die.

O son, thou hast not true humility, The highest virtue, mother of them all; But her thou hast not know; for what is this? Thou thoughtest of thy prowess and thy sins Thou hast not lost thyself to save thyself.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

Who trusted God was love indeed And love Creation's final law Though Nature, red in tooth and claw With ravine, shrieked against his creed.

His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.