Such sober certainty of waking bliss.
How soon hath Time, the subtle thief of youth, stolen on his wing my three-and-twentieth year!
Beauty is God's handwriting-a wayside sacrament.
So farewell hope, and with hope farewell fear,Farewell remorse: all good to me is lost;Evil,be thou my good.
What is dark within me, illumine.
Heaven, the seat of bliss, Brooks not the works of violence and war.