Nature, so far as in her lies, imitates God.
And every dew-drop paints a bow.
Tho' much is taken, much abides.
Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.
The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.
The woman's cause is man's. They rise or sink Together. / Dwarf'd or godlike, bound or free; miserable, / How shall men grow? - Let her be / All that not harms distinctive womanhood.