And often, glad no more, We wear a face of joy because We have been glad of yore.

And through the heat of conflict keeps the law In calmness made, and sees what he foresaw.

O Cuckoo! shall I call thee bird, Or but a wandering voice?

But who would force the soul tilts with a straw Against a champion cased in adamant

To the solid ground Of nature trusts the Mind that builds for aye.

The unconquerable pang of despised love.

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