Suffering is permanent, obscure and dark, And shares the nature of infinity.

He spake of love, such love as spirits feel In worlds whose course is equable and pure; No fears to beat away, no strife to heal,- The past unsighed for, and the future sure.

"What is good for a bootless bene?" With these dark words begins my tale; And their meaning is, Whence can comfort spring When prayer is of no avail?

The first cuckoo's melancholy cry.

Wisdom is oftentimes nearer when we stoop than when we soar.

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

Bright gem instinct with music, vocal spark.