CONCLUSION
Whether the Sensitive Plant, or thatWhich within its boughs like a spirit satEre its outward form had known decay,Now felt this change, I cannot say.
Whether the Sensitive Plant, or thatWhich within its boughs like a spirit satEre its outward form had known decay,Now felt this change, I cannot say.
Whether the Sensitive Plant, or thatWhich within its boughs like a spirit satEre its outward form had known decay,Now felt this change, I cannot say.
Whether the Sensitive Plant, or that
Which within its boughs like a spirit sat
Ere its outward form had known decay,
Now felt this change, I cannot say.
Whether that lady’s gentle mindNo longer with the form combinedWhich scattered love, as stars do light,Found sadness, where it left delight,
Whether that lady’s gentle mindNo longer with the form combinedWhich scattered love, as stars do light,Found sadness, where it left delight,
Whether that lady’s gentle mindNo longer with the form combinedWhich scattered love, as stars do light,Found sadness, where it left delight,
Whether that lady’s gentle mind
No longer with the form combined
Which scattered love, as stars do light,
Found sadness, where it left delight,
I dare not guess; but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream,
I dare not guess; but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream,
I dare not guess; but in this lifeOf error, ignorance, and strife,Where nothing is, but all things seem,And we the shadows of the dream,
I dare not guess; but in this life
Of error, ignorance, and strife,
Where nothing is, but all things seem,
And we the shadows of the dream,
It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant if one considers it,To own that death itself must be,Like all the rest, a mockery.
It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant if one considers it,To own that death itself must be,Like all the rest, a mockery.
It is a modest creed, and yetPleasant if one considers it,To own that death itself must be,Like all the rest, a mockery.
It is a modest creed, and yet
Pleasant if one considers it,
To own that death itself must be,
Like all the rest, a mockery.
That garden sweet, that lady fair,And all sweet shapes and odours there,In truth have never past away:’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they.
That garden sweet, that lady fair,And all sweet shapes and odours there,In truth have never past away:’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they.
That garden sweet, that lady fair,And all sweet shapes and odours there,In truth have never past away:’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they.
That garden sweet, that lady fair,
And all sweet shapes and odours there,
In truth have never past away:
’Tis we, ’tis ours, are changed; not they.
For love, and beauty, and delight,There is no death nor change: their mightExceeds our organs, which endureNo light, being themselves obscure.
For love, and beauty, and delight,There is no death nor change: their mightExceeds our organs, which endureNo light, being themselves obscure.
For love, and beauty, and delight,There is no death nor change: their mightExceeds our organs, which endureNo light, being themselves obscure.
For love, and beauty, and delight,
There is no death nor change: their might
Exceeds our organs, which endure
No light, being themselves obscure.
Printed byBallantyne, Hanson & Co.London & Edinburgh