Knowledge comes, but wisdom lingers, and I linger on the shore, And the individual withers, and the world is more and more.

The quiet sense of something lost

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.

What! I should call on that Infinite Love that has served us so well? Infinite cruelty rather, that made everlasting hell, Made us, foreknew us, foredoom'd us, and does what he will with his own; Better our dead brute mother who never has heard us groan.

A smile abroad is often a scowl at home.

Men, my brothers, men the workers, ever reaping something new.

Some full-breasted swan That, fluting a wild carol ere her death, Ruffles her pure cold plume, and takes the flood With swarthy webs.