Sweet is true love that is given in vain, and sweet is death that takes away pain.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

Thou madest man, he knows not why, he thinks he was not made to die.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

And by the meadow-trenches blow the faint sweet cuckoo-flowers.

My strength is as the strength of ten, because my heart is pure.

But the tender grace of a day that is dead Will never come back to me.