Blind multitudes that jar confusedly At strife, earth's children, will ye never rest From toils made hateful here, and dawns distressed With ravelling self-engendered misery?...
March is slain; the keen winds fly; Nothing more is thine to do; April kisses thee good-bye; Thou must haste and follow too; Silent friend that guarded well Withered things to make us glad,...
Think not, because thine inmost heart means well, Thou hast the freedom of rude speech: sweet words Are like the voices of returning birds Filling the soul with summer, or a bell...