Accursed who brings to light of day the writings I have cast away.

I wonder anybody does anything at Oxford but dream and remember

I think you can leave the arts, superior or inferior, to the conscience of mankind.

Where there is nothing, there is God.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

Swift has sailed into his rest; Savage indignation there Cannot lacerate his breast Imitate him if you dare, World-besotted traveler; he Served human liberty.

How can I, that girl standing there, My attention fix On Roman or on Russian Or on Spanish politics? Yet here's a travelled man that knows What he talks about, And there's a politician That has read and thought, And maybe what they say is true Of war and war's alarms, But O that I were young again And held her in my arms!