Tho' much is taken, much abides.

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

An English homegrey twilight poured On dewy pasture, dewy trees, Softer than sleepall things in order stored, A haunt of ancient Peace.

Gone - flitted away, Taken the stars from the night and the sun From the day! Gone, and a cloud in my heart.

In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold

And statesmen at her council met Who knew the seasons, when to take Occasion by the hand, and make The bounds of freedom wider yet.

The wild swan's death-hymn took the soul Of that waste place with joy Hidden in sorrow: at first to the ear The warble was low, and full and clear.