The woods decay, the woods decay and fall.

And what delights can equal those That stir the spirit's inner deeps, When one that loves but knows not, reaps A truth from one that loves and knows?

And the stately ships go on To their haven under the hill; But O for the touch of a vanished hand, And the sound of a voice that is still!

Oh that it were possible, After long grief and pain, To find the arms of my true love, Around me once again

I cannot rest from travel: I will drink Life to the lees: all times I have enjoyed Greatly, have suffered greatly, both with those That loved me, and alone.

Manners are not idle, but the fruit of loyal and of noble mind.

The dream Dreamed by a happy man, when the dark East, Unseen, is brightening to his bridal morn.