Poetry, like love, is something we never truly say goodbye to.
Lose who may-I still can say, Those who win heaven, blest are they!
What? Was man made a wheel-work to wind up, And be discharged, and straight wound up anew? No! grown, his growth lasts; taught, he ne'er forgets: May learn a thousand things, not twice the same.
In the first is the last, in thy will is my power to believe.
Good strong thick stupefying incense-smoke!
So munch on, crunch on, take your nuncheon, Breakfast, supper, dinner, luncheon!