Shall I not give this world my heart, and well? If for naught else, for many a miracle Of the impassioned spring, the rose, the snow? Nay, by the spring that still must come and go...
Spare us, Lord, that last, that dreariest ill! Thy wrath's grim thunder, and thy lightning-scorn For our iniquity, that we have worn Soft as a grace, these, if it be thy will,...