The dirty nurse, Experience, in her kind Hath fouled me.

I envy not in any moods The captive void of noble rage, The linnet born within the cage, That never knew the summer woods: I envy not the beast that takes His license in the field of time, Unfetter’d by the sense of crime, To whom a conscience never wakes; Nor, what may count itself as blest, The heart that never plighted troth But stagnates in the weeds of sloth; Nor any want-begotten rest. I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all.

For every worm beneath the moon Draws different threads, and late and soon Spins, toiling out his own cocoon.

The words 'far, far away' had always a strange charm.

Weeded and worn the ancient thatch Upon the lonely moated grange.

That tower of strength Which stood four-square to all the winds that blew.

Can calm despair and wild unrest Be tenants of a single breast, Or sorrow such a changeling be?