No rock so hard but a little wave may beat admission in a thousand years.
Here are cool mosses deep, And thro’ the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep.
And out of darkness came the hands That reach thro’ nature, moulding men.
A life of nothing’s nothing worth, From that first nothing ere his birth, To that last nothing under earth.
And on her lover’s arm she leant, And round her waist she felt it fold, And far across the hills they went In that new world which is the old.
Who are wise in love, love most, say least.
‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.
No life that breathes with human breath Has ever truly longed for death.
How dull it is to pause, to make an end, To rust unburnish’d, not to shine in use! As tho’ to breathe were life!
Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form.