A voice so thrilling ne'er was heard In spring-time from the Cuckoo-bird, Breaking the silence of the seas Among the farthest Hebrides.
'But they are dead; those two are dead! Their spirits are in heaven!' 'Twas throwing words away; for still The little maid would have her will, And said, 'Nay, we are seven!'
Our haughty life is crowned with darkness, Like London with its own black wreath,
But how can he expect that others should Build for him, sow for him, and at his call Love him, who for himself will take no heed at all?
No master spirit, no determined road; But equally a want of books and men!
Milton, in his hand The thing became a trumpet;
My apprehensions come in crowds; I dread the rustling of the grass; The very shadows of the clouds Have power to shake me as they pass:
The good die first And they whose hearts are dry as summer dust Burn to the socket.
That blessed mood In which the burthen of the mystery, In which the heavy and the weary weight Of all this unintelligible world Is lightened.
the soul, Remembering how she felt, but what she felt Remembering not, retains an obscure sense Of possible sublimity,