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!

Smiling the boy fell dead.

The sad rhyme of the men who proudly clung To their first fault, and withered in their pride.

All poetry is difficult to read - The sense of it anyhow.

Of power does Man possess no particle: Of knowledge-just so much as show that still It ends in ignorance on every side.

One wise man's verdict outweighs all the fools'.

Who hears music feels his solitude peopled at once.