The passionate heart of the poet is whirled into folly and vice.
Better not to be at all Than not to be noble.
Let the great world spin for ever down the ringing grooves of change.
She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room
O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.
Like glimpses of forgotten dreams.