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?

If I make dark my countenance, I shut my life from happier chance.

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!

Sweet is every sound, sweeter the voice, but every sound is sweet.

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

There twice a day the Severn fills; The salt sea-water passes by, And hushes half the babbling Wye, And makes a silence in the hills.

He that shuts love out, in turn shall be Shut out from love, and on her threshold lie, Howling in outer darkness.