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

A pasty costly-made, Where quail and pigeon, lark and leveret lay, Like fossils of the rock, with golden yolks Imbedded and injellied.

It is the little rift within the lute That by and by will make the music mute, And ever widening slowly silence all.

Come, my friends Tis not too late to seek a newer world Push off, and sitting well in order smite The sounding furrows; for my purpose holds To sail beyond the sunset and the baths Of all the western stars, until I die

And ah for a man to arise in me, That the man I am may cease to be!

So now I have sworn to bury All this dead body of hate I feel so free and so clear By the loss of that dead weight

'Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.