How dull it is to pause, to make an end, to rust unburnished, not to shine in use! As though to breathe were life.

The same words conceal and declare the thoughts of men.

The still affection of the heart Became an outward breathing type, That into stillness past again, And left a want unknown before; Although the loss had brought us pain, That loss but made us love the more.

Ring out the false, ring in the true.

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

Science grows and Beauty dwindles.

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