To me He is all fault who hath no fault at all: For who loves me must have a touch of earth.

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.

Hope Smiles from the threshold of the year to come, Whispering 'it will be happier'.

She sleeps: her breathings are not heard In palace chambers far apart. The fragrant tresses are not stirr'd That lie upon her charmed heart She sleeps: on either hand upswells The gold-fringed pillow lightly prest: She sleeps, nor dreams, but ever dwells A perfect form in perfect rest.

A life of nothing's nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.

Attain the unattainable.

Because right is right, to follow right Were wisdom in the scorn of consequence.