But evil is wrought by want of thought, As well as want of heart!
The year's in wane; There is nothing adorning; The night has no eve, And the day has no morning; Cold winter gives warning!
She stood breast-high amid the corn Clasp'd by the golden light of morn, Like the sweetheart of the sun, Who many a glowing kiss had won.
Bells are musics laughter.
Gold! gold! gold! gold! Bright and yellow, hard and cold!
To attempt to advise conceited people is like whistling against the wind.