This quiet sail is as a noiseless wing To waft me from distraction.

Maidens, like moths, are ever caught, by glare, And Mammon wins his way where seraphs might despair.

Yet I did love thee to the last, As ferverently as thou, Who didst not change through all the past, And canst not alter now.

Thy decay's still impregnate with divinity.

Gone, glimmering through the dream of things that were.

The thorns which I have reap'd are of the tree I planted; they have torn me, and I bleed. I should have known what fruit would spring from such a seed.

He learned the arts of riding, fencing, gunnery, And how to scale a fortress - or a nunnery.