Theirs not to make reply, Theirs not to reason why, Theirs but to do and die.

The jingling of the guinea helps the hurt that Honor feels.

Man comes and tills the field and lies beneath, And after many a summer dies the swan.

Nature is one with rapine, a harm no preacher can heal; The Mayfly is torn by the swallow, the sparrow speared by the shrike, And the whole little wood where I sit is a world of plunder and prey.

Ah God! the petty fools of rhyme That shriek and sweat in pigmy wars.

I do but sing because I must, And pipe but as the linnets sing.

So many worlds, so much to do, So little done, such things to be.

More things are wrought by prayer Than this world dreams of.

What are men better than sheep or goats That nourish a blind life within the brain, If knowing God, they lift not hands of prayer Both for themselves and those who call them friend?

Shape your heart to front the hour, but dream not that the hour will last.