The beast faith lives on its own dung.

Ask nothing more of me sweet; All I can give you I give; Heart of my heart were it more, More would be laid at your feet.

Stately, kindly, lordly friend Condescend Here to sit by me.

The more congenial page of some tenth-rate poeticule worn out with failure after failure and now squat in his hole like the tailless fox, he is curled up to snarl and whimper beneath the inaccessible vine of song.

We are not sure of sorrow, And joy was never sure; Today will die tomorrow; Time stoops to no man's lure.

Hope knows not if fear speaks truth, nor fear whether hope be blind as she.

Marvellous mercies and infinite love.