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

Me this uncharted freedom tires; I feel the weight of chance desires, My hopes no more must change their name, I long for a repose that ever is the same.

Thou best philosopher, who yet dost keep/ Thy heritage, thou eye among the blind.

Great God! I'd rather be a Pagan.

The earth was all before me. With a heart Joyous, nor scared at its own liberty, I look about; and should the chosen guide Be nothing better than a wandering cloud, I cannot miss my way.

But thou that didst appear so fair To fond imagination, Dost rival in the light of day Her delicate creation.

Miss not the occasion; by the forelock take that subtle power, the never-halting time.