And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?

The old order changeth, yielding place to new, and god fulfills himself in many ways, lest one good custom should corrupt the world.

Love will conquer at the last.

For now the poet cannot die, Nor leave his music as of old, But round him ere he scarce be cold Begins the scandal and the cry.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

The smell of violets, hidden in the green, Pour'd back into my empty soul and frame The times when I remembered to have been Joyful and free from blame.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayers.