Dreams, books, are each a world; and books, we know, Are a substantial world, both pure and good: Round these, with tendrils strong as flesh and blood, Our pastime and our happiness will grow.

Controls them and subdues, transmutes, bereaves Of their bad influence, and their good receives.

Our meddling intellect Misshapes the beauteous forms of things We murder to dissect

Who, doomed to go in company with Pain And Fear and Bloodshed,-miserable train!- Turns his necessity to glorious gain.

For youthful faults ripe virtues shall atone.

By all means sometimes be alone; salute thyself; see what thy soul doth wear; dare to look in thy chest; and tumble up and down what thou findest there.

Some natural sorrow, loss, or pain That has been, and may be again.