Our echoes roll from soul to soul, And grow for ever and for ever.

Of love that never found his earthly close, What sequel? Streaming eyes and breaking hearts; Or all the same as if he had not been?

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

So many worlds, so much to do, so little done, such things to be.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.

Cleave ever to the sunnier side of doubt.