His honour rooted in dishonour stood, And faith unfaithful kept him falsely true.
A louse in the locks of literature.
Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.
The vow that binds too strictly snaps itself.
So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.
Of happy men that have the power to die, And grassy barrows of the happier dead.