I can't but say it is an awkward sight To see one's native land receding through The growing waters; it unmans one quite, Especially when life is rather new.

With thee all tales are sweet; each clime has charms; earth - sea alike - our world within our arms.

Still from the fount of joy's delicious springs Some bitter o'er the flowers its bubbling venom flings.

So we'll go no more a-roving So late into the night, Though the heart still be as loving, And the moon still be as bright. For the sword outwears its sheath, And the soul outwears the breast, And the heart must pause to breathe, And love itself have rest. Though the night was made for loving, And the day returns too soon, Yet we'll go no more a-roving By the light of the moon.

I shall soon be six-and-twenty. Is there anything in the future that can possibly console us for not being always twenty-five?

In commitment, we dash the hopes of a thousand potential selves.

A mighty mass of brick, and smoke, and shipping, Dirty and dusty, but as wide as eye Could reach, with here and there a sail just skipping In sight, then lost amidst the forestry Of masts; a wilderness of steeples peeping On tiptoe through their sea-coal canopy; A huge, dun cupola, like a fools-cap crown On a fool's head - and there is London Town.