On all things created remaineth the half-effaced signature of God, Somewhat of fair and good, though blotted by the finger of corruption.

I cannot rest from travel; I will drink Life to the lees.

A day may sink or save a realm.

But every page having an ample marge, And every marge enclosing in the midst A square of text that looks a little blot.

I stood on a tower in the wet, And New Year and Old Year met, And winds were roaring and blowing: And I said, "O years, that meet in tears, Have ye aught that is worth the knowing? Science enough and exploring, Wanderers coming and going, Matter enough for deploring, But aught that is worth the knowing?

We cannot be kind to each other here for even an hour. We whisper, and hint, and chuckle and grin at our brother's shame; however you take it we men are a little breed.

And sometimes through the mirror blue The knights come riding two and two.