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

One so small Who knowing nothing knows but to obey.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

Old age hath yet his honour and his toil.

Virtue must shape itself in deed.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.

A simple maiden in her flower, Is worth a hundred coats of arms.