Nature, red in tooth and claw.

But what am I? An infant crying in the night: An infant crying for the light: And with no language but a cry.

So sad, so fresh the days that are no more.

And oft I heard the tender dove In firry woodlands making moan.

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.

She hath no loyal knight and true, The Lady of Shalott.

Sin is too stupid to see beyond itself.