There is always change, bad customs pass and give way to better ones.

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

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

Faith lives in honest doubt.

Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.

As the husband is the wife is; thou art mated with a clown, As the grossness of his nature will have weight to drag thee down.

The year is dying in the night.