How is it that you live, and what is it you do?

This City now doth like a garment wear The beauty of the morning; silent, bare, Ships, towers, domes, theatres and temples lie Open unto the fields and to the sky; All bright and glittering in the smokeless air.

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

For all things are less dreadful than they seem.

To be a Prodigal's favourite,-then, worse truth, A Miser's pensioner,-behold our lot!

Oh for a single hour of that Dundee Who on that day the word of onset gave!

But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?