The simple Wordsworth . . . / Who, both by precept and example, shows / That prose is verse, and verse is merely prose.

Just as old age is creeping on space, And clouds come o'er the sunset of our day, They kindly leave us, though not quite alone, But in good company--the gout or stone.

They never fail who die in a great cause.

He who grown aged in this world of woe, In deeds, not years, piercing the depths of life, So that no wonder waits him.

I stood among them, but not of them: in a shroud of thoughts which were not their thoughts.

Yet still there whispers the small voice within, Heard through Gain's silence, and o'er Glory's din; Whatever creed be taught or land be trod, Man's conscience is the oracle of God.

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