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

Why comes temptation but for man to meet And master and make crouch beneath his foot, And so be pedestaled in triumph?

He who did well in war just earns the right, To begin doing well in peace.

Oh, to be in England now that April's there.

Though Rome's gross yoke Drops off, no more to be endured, Her teaching is not so obscured By errors and perversities, That no truth shines athwart the lies.

I see my way as birds their trackless way. I shall arrive,- what time, what circuit first, I ask not; but unless God send his hail Or blinding fire-balls, sleet or stifling snow, In some time, his good time, I shall arrive: He guides me and the bird. In his good time.

For I say this is death and the sole death,- When a man's loss comes to him from his gain, Darkness from light, from knowledge ignorance, And lack of love from love made manifest.