This is servitude, To serve the unwise.
So may'st thou live, till like ripe fruit thou drop Into thy mother's lap.
Freely they stood who stood, and fell who fell.
And live like Nature's bastards, not her sons.
Come to the sunset tree! The day is past and gone; The woodman's axe lies free, And the reaper's work is done.
From haunted spring and dale Edg'd with poplar pale The parting genius is with sighing sent.