The old order changes yielding place to new.

Shall the hag Evil die with the child of Good, Or propagate again her loathèd kind, Thronging the cells of the diseased mind, Hateful with hanging cheeks, a withered brood, Though hourly pastured on the salient blood?

Dreams are true while they last, and do we not live in dreams?

Nature, red in tooth and claw.

O Blackbird! sing me something well: While all the neighbors shoot thee round, I keep smooth plats of fruitful ground, Where thou may'st warble, eat and dwell.

The many fail: the one succeeds.

She left the web, she left the loom, She made three paces through the room