How well I know what I mean to do When the long dark Autumn evenings come, And where, my soul, is thy pleasant hue? With the music of all thy voices, dumb In life’s November too! I shall be found by the fire, suppose, O’er a great wise book as beseemeth age, While the shutters flap as the cross-wind blows, And I turn the page, and I turn the page, Not verse now, only prose!

When I love most, love is disguised. In hate; and when hate is surprised, in love, then I hate most.

When a man's busy, why leisure Strikes him as wonderful pleasure: 'Faith, and at leisure once is he? Straightway he wants to be busy.

But there are times when patience proves at fault.

Rejoice that man is hurled, From change to change unceasingly, His soul's wings never furled!

Sappho survives, because we sing her songs; And Eschylus, because we read his plays!

The sea heaves up, hangs loaded o'er the land, Breaks there, and buries its tumultuous strength.