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. Comfort thyself: what comfort is in me I have lived my life and that which I have done May he within himself make pure but thou If thou shouldst never see my face again Pray for my soul. More things are wrought by prayer than this world dreams of.

And every dew-drop paints a bow.

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

My mind is clouded with a doubt.