And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

What is literature but the expression of moods by the vehicle of symbol and incident?

A daughter of a King of Ireland, heard A voice singing on a May Eve like this, And followed half awake and half asleep, Until she came into the Land of Faery, Where nobody gets old and godly and grave, Where nobody gets old and crafty and wise, Where nobody gets old and bitter of tongue. And she is still there, busied with a dance Deep in the dewy shadow of a wood, Or where stars walk upon a mountain-top.

If suffering brings wisdom, I would wish to be less wise.

When such as I cast out remorse; So great a sweetness flows into the breast; We must laugh and we must sing, We are blest by everything, Everything we look upon is blessed.

And many a poor man that has roved Loved and thought himself beloved From a glad kindness cannot take his eyes.

We had fed the heart on fantasies, The heart's grown brutal from the fare, More substance in our enmities Than in our love