the shell must break before the bird can fly.

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

My purpose holds to sail beyond the sunset and the baths of all the Western stars until I die.

We are self-uncertain creatures, and we may Yea, even when we know not, mix our spites And private hates with our defence of Heaven.

Ring out the old, ring in the new, Ring, happy bells, across the snow: The year is going, let him go; Ring out the false, ring in the true.

That loss is common would not make My own less bitter, rather more: Too common! Never morning wore To evening, but some heart did break.

The old order changes yielding place to new.