The wind, a sightless laborer, whistles at his task.
Turning, for them who pass, the common dust Of servile opportunity to gold.
Great God! I'd rather be A Pagan suckled in a creed outworn; So might I, standing on this pleasant lea, Have glimpses that would make me less forlorn; Have sight of Proteus rising from the sea; Or hear old Triton blow his wreathed horn
Stern Winter loves a dirge-like sound.
What we have loved Others will love And we will teach them how.
Wrongs unredressed, or insults unavenged.