I wind about, and in and out, - With here a blossom sailing, - And here and there a lusty trout, - And here and there a grayling.

He that wrongs his friend, wrongs himself more.

It may be we shall touch the Happy Isles, And see the great Achilles whom we knew.

All precious things, discover'd late, To those that seek them issue forth, For love in sequel works with fate, And draws the veil from hidden worth.

Shall love be blamed for want of faith?

The long day wanes: the slow moon climbs: the deep Moans round with many voices. Come, my friends, Tis not too late to seek a newer world.

The quiet sense of something lost