It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

O mighty-mouthed inventor of harmonies, O skilled to sing of Time or Eternity, God-gifted organ-voice of England, Milton, a name to resound for ages.

As love, if love be perfect, casts out fear, so hate, if hate be perfect, casts out fear.

Dark house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more - Behold me, for I cannot sleep, And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day.

The Gods themselves cannot recall their gifts.

A truth looks freshest in the fashions of the day.

From yon blue heaven above us bent, The grand old gardener and his wife Smile at the claims of long descent.