Good to forgive, Best to forget.

Truth that peeps Over the glass's edge when dinner's done.

Pleasure must succeed to pleasure, else past pleasure turns to pain

In God's good time, Which does not always fall on Saturday When the world looks for wages.

That moment she was mine, mine, fair, Perfectly pure and good: I found A thing to do, and all her hair In one long yellow string I wound Three times her little throat around, And strangled her. No pain felt she; I am quite sure she felt no pain. As a shut bud that holds a bee, I warily oped her lids: again Laughed the blue eyes without a stain. And I untightened the next tress About her neck; her cheek once more Blushed bright beneath my burning kiss . . .

But how carve way i' the life that lies before, If bent on groaning ever for the past?

Make no more giants, God!But elevate the race at once!