Dowered with the hate of hate, the scorn of scorn, The love of love.

I sometimes find it half a sin, To put to words the grief i feel, For words like nature,half reveal, and half conceal the soul within.

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

Let observation with extended observation observe extensively.

Nor at all can tell Whether I mean this day to end myself, Or lend an ear to Plato where he says, That men like soldiers may not quit the post Allotted by the Gods.

Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

I heard no longer The snowy-banded, dilettante, Delicate-handed priest intone.