Test every work of intellect or faith and everything that your own hands have wrought.

I Sing what was lost and dread what was won, / I walk in a battle fought over again.

And God, the herdsman, goads them on behind.

I am content to live it all again And yet again, if it be life to pitch Into the frog-spawn of a blind man's ditch.

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

Education is not filling

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.