Who dreamed that beauty passes like a dream?

I pray-for fashion's word is out And prayer comes round again- That I may seem, though I die old, A foolish, passionate man.

A man in his own secret meditation / Is lost amid the labyrinth that he has made / In art or politics.

My father was an angry and impatient teacher and flung the reading book at my head.

An aged man is but a paltry thing, a tattered coat upon a stick

For to articulate sweet sounds together Is to work harder than all these, and yet Be thought an idler by the noisy set Of bankers, schoolmasters, and clergymen The martyrs call the world.

Locke sank into a swoon; The Garden died; God took the spinning-jenny Out of his side.